Harry Potter and the Fatal Fury
by Fish and Bird
Summary: Set after the events of the Half Blood Prince, we follow Harry, Ron and Hermione as they hurtle towards the final confrontation with Voldemort. Character deaths!
1. Oh, to reminisce!

**Disclaimer: This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction and is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by J.K.Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros. or any other individual or corporation involved in the distribution of Harry Potter material.**

**Chapter 1 – Oh, to reminisce!**

_"Every tomorrow has two handles. We can take hold of it with the handle of anxiety or the handle of faith."_

_  
__Henry Ward Beecher_

Gilberto Heel paused as he rounded the corner of Knockturn Alley. He wanted to ensure that there was, as he was already quite sure, nobody following him. He tilted back his head and breathed deeply of the familiar odours which lay heavily upon the air and, with a half-smile on his lips, he cast his eyes over the welcome diversions that such a…_unique_…place might offer one such as himself.

The muted colours of Knockturn Alley contrasted nicely, he mused, with the garish shop fronts of that other, lesser alley. Peopled by the decadent popinjays that tolerated Muggles, half-breeds and other sundry enemies of the Dark Lord, Diagon Alley would soon be brought to _heel_. His lip curled as he both savoured this old family quip and imagined the wailing of those who would become the underclass, those whose only purpose would be to serve the Few, the Faithful … _the Death Eaters_.

----------

Ron blew out his cheeks and let out a deep sigh, but his look of boredom served no other purpose than to raise Hermione's eyebrows. She knew that, like all boys, Ron was hiding his true feelings. For the truth was they were both worried by the fact that the too-thin boy with the dark hair and glasses was sick with worry. And apart from their poorly-hidden feelings for one another, they loved Harry Potter above all other things.

"I'm starving!" whispered Ron hoarsely, "D'you reckon he'll be finished soon?"

Hermione stared at Ron and was about to arch her eyebrows, as if to say that had been a silly question. It had certainly worked in the past and she had no doubts that it would cow him on this occasion too. She stopped herself, though, as she had resolved recently to argue less with Ron. This was certainly not due to the fact, as Ginny kept gently insisting, that she, _Hermione Granger_, had feelings for _Ronald Weasley_. No, no, no - the very idea was ludicrous. It just seemed that Ron had developed an increased capacity for irritating her lately, no matter how hard she tried not to let him get under her skin.

Instead, she merely frowned and put her finger to her lips, indicating that he should remain silent. But then, to her great surprise, her hand seemed to take on a life of its own for it reached over and smoothed some of the flaming red hair back out of his eyes. Both Ron and Hermione looked at one another, eyes wide with shock but it was Ron who, blushing purple and in looking away first, failed to see Hermione's own reddening face and tiny smile of triumph. He quickly glanced back at Hermione with a confused look and seemed to be on the point of saying something, but instead contented himself with trying to give the appearance that he was totally cool with what had just happened; to act as if it had been nothing more significant than Hermione handing him a quill in class.

Harry, meanwhile, was single-handedly trying to denude the desolate moor of its wiry yellow grass with his left hand. His other hand was slowly kneading at the muscles of his neck, trying to work out some of the tension that had come to nest there since the death of Albus Dumbledore. As he looked out across the stalks of grass which were dancing under the languid hand of the late summer breezes and squinted up at the scudding grey clouds, he pondered the question which had come to haunt him every hour of every day: where now might he turn for advice? To Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor in a school to which he had vowed he would never return? Perhaps to the peripatetic Remus Lupin, last of the Marauders save for the traitor Peter Pettigrew? Or maybe he might turn to Mr & Mrs Weasley, the adults for whom he felt more affection than any others?

Like Ron, Harry blew out his cheeks and let out a deep, tense breath. No, he concluded, there would be no one to replace Dumbledore; there would be no one to help him in the coming trials. Instead, he would have to rely on the two people squatting behind him - the very two people he loved most in the world and would most like to keep out of harm's way.

He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. Hermione was blooming into womanhood and was beginning to turn heads wherever she went. Of course, Hermione being Hermione, she was completely unaware of this but if she ever did, she would be a much more confident witch than she was now. Gone would be her self doubts and in their place would be self confidence and a truly wonderful person.

He grinned as he looked at Ron, who was in turn looking at Hermione. The look in Ron's eyes, Harry thought, was probably very similar to the look in his own when he gazed upon Ginny. Ron was tall and lanky and, in Harry's opinion at least, in serious need of a hair cut. Despite this, he mused, Ron seemed to be more attractive to the opposite sex with each passing week. If only they'd both say to each other what was in their hearts instead of being so…

With this bittersweet thought left unfinished, he stood up and brushed off his hands, ridding them of the brittle yellow grass of the moor.

"Ready mate?" asked Ron.

Harry looked at them both and took a couple of deep breaths to calm the hot, prickly feeling in his eyes that he seemed to be plagued with these days.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm ready."

With this there were three near-simultaneous cracks as they disapparated. Behind them, they left nothing but a few crows, pecking forlornly in the clumps of grass in search of their next meal.

----------

Heel steeled himself as he prepared to enter Borgin and Burkes. The blandishments and petty trinkets of other, inferior shops held no appeal for him. Only in the musty depths of an establishment such as this would a true connoisseur find something of value. As he smoothed the fringe of his grey pudding-bowl haircut, he reflected on the irony of sourcing a Muggle item from Borgin and Burkes, for long had these two names been linked, and not without reason, to the hidden market for _dark_ artefacts.

As he approached the premises, notable only for how unremarkable they were considering the nature of what lay within, Heel tried to still his pounding heart. For if it was seen just how eager he was to procure the item…well, suffice it to say that the price might well be raised well out of the reach of his meagre resources. Heel would not allow that. Heel would do anything to procure this item and lay it at the feet of the Dark Lord: the item which quite simply could not fail to put an end to Harry Potter once and for all.

----------

Ron looked into the mirror and ran a hand through his shoulder length hair. It irritated him, truth be told, but he thought that Hermi…that _she_…liked it, and was therefore determined to keep it that way. Fred and George, ever ready to tease their younger brother, had enchanted a pair of scissors to chase after Ron the last time they had visited Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Ron had nearly punched Fred, but at the sight of Hermione doubled over with laughter he had almost forgiven his brothers.

"Ronald Weasley," shrieked Mrs Weasley from the kitchen, "if you're not down here in five minutes I shall tell Fred and George exactly what it is you're doing up there!"

"Below the belt, Mum," muttered Ron.

He shuddered at the thought of those two bursting in on him when he was shaving, not that it would be the first time that they had targeted him for some ill-deserved ribbing. Ever since he had started to shave and take more care of his hair, his brothers had scented blood. They knew that their brother - little Ronnikins - was finally interested in girls. Had they known that Ron was in fact interested in a particular girl his life simply wouldn't have been worth living.

He sighed, pointed his wand at his chin and muttered, _"Spumas."_ Thick foam sputtered from the end to cover his lower face from ear to ear. He didn't really need to shave, having just done so a couple of days ago, but what with it being Bill's and Fleur's special day tomorrow and all... He shook his head and concentrated on the task at hand.

Ron was the first to admit that he was confused. Much to his chagrin, life was more complicated these days. Despite the fact that he had always been sensitive about his family's relative poverty, he had always been happy. Apart from Percy he had a very good relationship with his siblings and although he had second or even third-hand robes, books and wands, he was content. He had seen enough of the world to realise that not everybody had it as good as he did. Alright, his mum was prone to nagging sometimes - well, often - and Percy was a first-class prat, but apart from that life was pretty good. There was plenty of food at home and not too many chores to do with so many wands around. Ron grinned as he remembered Hermione insisting that,

_"Many hands make light work, Ron,"_ with her hands on her hips and an indignant look on her face, as he tried to skive off washing the dishes after tea.

These days he often forgot that Hermione came from a Muggle family, but when she used sayings like that one it was all-too-easy to remember. A pure-blood would say, _"Many wands make light work"_.

Ron's grin faded as he realised he was thinking about Hermione again. Frowning, he picked up the cut-throat razor and concentrated on the task at hand.

----------

As he took hold of the ornate, tarnished bronze handle of the grimy front door of Borgin and Burkes, Heel felt a shiver of anticipation. He drew a final steadying breath and listened as the black leather which clad his hand creaked as he gently squeezed the latch below his thumb. The well-oiled hinges allowed him to enter the shop and close the door behind him both quickly and silently. He stood there with his back pressed firmly against the dirty glass and his heart hammering in his chest while what seemed like minutes passed by.

His eyes flicked restlessly back and forth, anxiously seeking his quarry for this day. To his left lay glass display cabinets, the type of which was so common in museums around the world. Although they were old, the glass was clean and the wood well polished. Whilst the outside of the shop was neglected, somebody obviously cared for the grotesque curios displayed on the inside.

To his right Heel could see a strangely arresting range of furniture. All of it was in perfect repair, but so very black that the casual observer might take it to be fire damaged. Each and every piece had been lovingly carved with complicated images of battles from the long history of Dark Magic. Most of the images he saw were unknown to him, but a few of them depicted well known scenes from the history of wizardkind. Cruel faced witches and wizards tormenting cowering Muggles was a much repeated theme. His lips twitched in amusement.

The premises were obviously sizeable and Heel could not quite make out all of the areas and their contents. However, he could distinguish a number of bookcases, some with open shelves and others securely locked, beyond the glass cases that were immediately to his left. His obsession with the Muggle artefact suddenly remembered, Heel nervously licked his lips and began moving in that direction, for surely there he would find that on which so much depended.

In his anticipation, he touched the fingertips of his left hand to his heart as his right hand extended towards the bookcases.

Towards his destiny.

----------


	2. We Two

**Chapter 2 – We Two**

The young witch sat on a bed of dry grass, chewing on a lock of her hair. It was strange to find such a quantity of leaves below evergreen poplars, she mused, but then again, with the quantity of trees surrounding this garden perhaps it wasn't so strange after all. These glorious leaves, all of them dressed in their autumnal colours, would follow the wind until they were trapped in this circular copse.

She took a handful, being particularly careful not to break their fragile bodies, and studied them. Golden browns, deep rich reds and warm oranges reflected the light and threw their colours onto her delicate face. She smiled for a fleeting moment before placing the leaves at her side and hugging her knees back into her chest.

The soft sigh of the breeze through the poplars was why Hermione had chosen this place. In the Burrow, there was precious little opportunity for quiet introspection. Again, a quick smile lifted her features as she silently acknowledged that the very chaotic energy of the place was one of its most endearing features. But, when all was said and done, Hermione was an only child. This meant that every now and then she would have to seek out a quiet spot and be alone with her thoughts, now more than ever before.

She heard the light step of somebody approaching and guessed who it was. Sure enough, Ginny sat down at her side and hugged her own knees into her chest.

"Building sandcastles?" she asked, indicating the pile of leaves with a nod of her head.

"Not quite the weather for sandcastles," replied Hermione with a laugh.

"Penny for your oh-so-clever thoughts?" said Ginny softly.

"It's just that … nothing," replied Hermione, "I'm just being silly."

"Hermione Granger? Silly?" teased Ginny, "Stop press! We need to get this scoop onto the front page of the Daily Prophet."

"Ginny, I swear that sometimes there's a bit too much of your brothers in you," Hermione said with a frown as she turned her face away from her friend. Ginny looked shocked as she had only meant her comment as bit of banter, but she quickly put two and two together.

"Hermione, I'm sorry. Perhaps you're right: I do spend too much time around my brothers. I didn't mean to be insensitive." She put an arm around her friend's shoulders and drew her closer. "What's up? Is it … is it Ron?" she asked tentatively.

Hermione sighed and put her head on Ginny's shoulder. "Yes and no: it's Ron and it's Harry. I'm worried about them both and I don't know what to do."

Ginny frowned and said, "Hermione, nobody knows what to do, we just have to…"

"Ginny," interrupted Hermione, "you don't understand." She paused to organise her thoughts and began to speak again. "I don't know whether or not you know the story, but once Professor Snape called me _'an insufferable little know-it-all'_."

"Snape's a git, you have to ignore..."

"Wait Ginny, listen to the whole story. Later on Professor Umbridge said that I was _'too clever by half'_. Ginny, I'm not stupid. I know that people say these things about me: I know that people think that book learning can't replace real-life experience ... and they're right," she finished.

"What do you mean Hermione? It was you who helped Harry reach the Philosopher's Stone in the first year at Hogwarts. It was you who..."

"It is me who doesn't have a clue how to speak to Ron about my feelings for him. It is me who can't think of a single piece of advice for Harry in his search for the Horcruxes. Ginny, what use am I if I can't help others and I can't help myself?" With this she dropped her head between her shoulders and let her hair fall in front of her face.

"Oh Hermione!" said Ginny in an exasperated tone of voice, "Studying is what you like doing, it's not who you are. Ron and Harry love Quidditch and Chocolate Frogs, but nobody defines them by those things. They had as little idea as you about what they were doing every time they were running around trying to get up You-Know-Who's nose. You should already know that, after all," she added with a sly grin, "you really are too clever by half."

From behind her hair, Hermione gave something like a half-laugh, half-sob and looked up. She had tears in her eyes, but she was also laughing. "You spend way too much time with your brothers Ginevra Weasley," she said as she slipped her arms around her friend's neck.

"Hermione, listen to me," said Ginny into her friend's hair, "you've told me your story, now let me tell you mine. Did you hear about Fred and George hanging around the local shop? There was a girl who worked there. She was a couple of years older than them and, well, obviously one of them was interested in her. There was no way that it could turn into anything serious what with her being a Muggle, but that's not the point.

"The interesting thing was that this girl was really pretty and very popular with the local boys. Every time she saw Fred and George though, she dropped everything. She knew they were only playing around, but she loved their sense of humour. They were always trying to convince her to spend one night of _'unbridled passion'_ with one or the other of them on the strength that _'tomorrow we might die'_. Can you imagine?"

At this, Hermione actually giggled.

"Anyway," Ginny continued, "believe it or not they had actually hit the nail on the head."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, without wanting to seem melodramatic, they were right: tomorrow we might die. Oh, I don't mean in the course of everyday life," she added hastily at Hermione's look of incredulity. "I mean you, me, Harry and Ron: everyone we know as well as our way of life.

"Look, the tired old excuse of _'...we might die tomorrow...'_ is normally used to justify any and all types of idiocy. Even I can see that and I'm hardly old and experienced. But for us, at the moment, under these circumstances, it's merely an observation of fact. Hermione, tell Ron how you feel. It may not work out in the long run, but at least you'll have tried. And as far as Harry is concerned, simply be there for him as a friend."

Hermione buried her face in her friend's shoulder and said, "Look at me, taking advice from a little girl!"

Ginny laughed and hit Hermione squarely on the back.

"Ow! That hurt!"

"It was meant to, smarty pants! I'm only one year younger than you!"

The sound of the two girls' laughter sent a few birds flying away from the poplars.

"Remember that song from the Hogwarts Choir?" asked Ginny.

"Which song?" said Hermione, wiping her eyes.

"_Something wicked this way comes!_" sang Ginny, obviously enjoying herself.

"Yes. Why?"

Ginny nodded her head, directing her friend's eyes towards the tall, red-haired boy who was slowly approaching the copse of trees. She gave Hermione's shoulder a quick squeeze and bolted in the opposite direction from her brother.

----------

Heel's heart almost stopped as the unexpected voice came from behind him.

"Was it something special you were looking for sir?"

"Damn your eyes, man!" he roared as he whirled around to find who had spoken, "what do you mean by sneaking up on me like that?"

His eyes wide and his nostrils flaring from the shock he had just received, Heel strode over to the greasy-haired, little man. Never normally one of life's heroes, Heel felt emboldened when he saw that it was Borgin himself, who was hardly taller than a young girl and certainly no stronger than a boy. This was how he liked his enemies!

Borgin watched as the short, rotund man stumped over to him. On his face he was careful to show the expected combination of fear, uncertainty and deference. Underneath, however, he was more than a little amused. Whereas many powerful, rich and dangerous people chose to offer their custom to his establishment, the man approaching him was definitely not of their ilk.

The customer looked oddly feminine when he moved, his steps a shade too short and light to be considered manly. He was also quite rotund, putting Borgin in mind of the spoilt brats that Muggles were always dragging around after them. His clothes were poorly cut and obviously not tailored for him. This was the worst sign so far, in as much as Borgin seldom cared for anything except the wealth of his customers. Yet, this particular specimen was curious. He was about sixty, give or take a few years, with a puffy face, blood-shot blue eyes and complexion that spoke of over-indulgence at the dinner table.

Despite all of the signs that this customer might not be worth his time and effort, Borgin decided to let himself be bullied. After all, if the ridiculous fat man proved to be worthless, the prospect of having him thrown out of his shop and humiliated in public was not without its appeal.

Heel had closed the distance between them and made as if to grab the lapels on the faded jacket of the shop keeper. Though he was prepared to entertain the ridiculous little fat man's ire if it would profit him, Borgin was not willing to be manhandled by him. He simply raised his arms to cover his face, as if terrified of suffering physical harm.

Apparently satisfied that he had made his point, Heel puffed out his chest and tried to pull in his ample belly. Striding around the centre of the room, he pulled off his gloves and began to slap them against his right thigh.

"You would do well to curry favour with one such as myself," he said, whilst fixing Borgin with what he hoped was an intimidating glare, "for I will be in the position to handsomely reward those whom I favour in but a short time."

Borgin was glad he was pretending to cower, for it meant that this vainglorious little man could not see the smirk that quickly passed over his mouth. Who did he think he was? He talked and walked as if he were a second-rate thespian and was obviously desperate to impress. What was it exactly that he wanted from this shop?

"Good day to you master," he cooed, "How might I be of assistance? Borgin and Burkes has a wide range of items to suit every customer … and their budget. We have magical items to suit every taste and..."

"Today it is not magic that I seek," huffed Heel impatiently.

"Indeed master? In which case it would be our Muggle artefacts then?"

With this Borgin gestured with his arm, indicating the direction that the customer should take. Sure enough, the area to the left was indeed where the item was located.

The money that Heel had spent on acquiring the information had not been wasted. Slowly, he let out a breath he did not realise that he had been holding. Before him was one of the open bookcases, its relatively unprotected status due to the fact that it held only Muggle items: curios for the eccentric.

"I have a purse of Galleons here for you Borgin," stated Heel pompously, "if, and only if, you have a certain Muggle book. A friend of mine alerted me to its presence in your establishment and truth be told, I don't much value it. However, a lady friend of mine would be well pleased by it; she collects these things, though Merlin alone knows why."

"And what might this item be, Mr ... ?" asked Borgin, bowing low.

"Heel, my name is Heel. It is some sort of religious tome, apparently. A ledger used to record the tiresome goings-on of those Muggle dullards."

At this piece of information, Borgin frowned. The fat man stank of poorly-repressed desperation, but the type of book he indicated was indeed worthless. Many such items were stolen as pranks by Muggle-baiters, who enjoyed the consternation they caused when the Muggle authorities were never able to work out how the items had disappeared from locked buildings.

"Perhaps if sir could be more precise, I might be able to locate the item in question," said Borgin, stalling for time.

"Certainly," said Heel, beaming and apparently satisfied that all was going well. "It is the parish ledger of Godric's Hollow."

Borgin made a show of searching for the book, even though he knew exactly where it was located. This item had been in the store for a long time. If he remembered correctly, the gentleman who had sold it had been rather desperate for money. Understandable, as not two days later he had been cornered and killed by Aurors engaged in the pursuit of the followers of the Dark Lord. This had been but a few weeks after the Potter child had somehow brought down the most powerful of all Dark wizards.

He quickly resolved to sell the item. He wanted to learn more about it, but could hardly ask the fool at his side. The fat man would be followed and whatever came to light regarding the ledger, Borgin would soon know. And if the item was indeed valuable, well, accidents did happen.

Especially if you knew the right people to arrange them for you.

----------

"Hermione," said Ron by way of greeting, with a curt nod of his head. He was wearing an old grey jumper which didn't match his hair at all. It made him look ill.

"Was that jumper Charlie's?"

"Yeah, it was. How did you know?"

"Because it's much too big across the shoulders for you. Here, sit by my side," she said and patted the ground where Ginny had been sitting. Ron shrugged, looking uncomfortable, but did as he was told.

Hermione tried to rearrange the jumper across Ron's shoulders, but it was no use. Charlie was stockier than either Ron or the Twins and the jumper would look awful on him no matter what she did.

"Oh Ron," she sighed. She rested her hands on the back of his shoulders, noting that he seemed rigid. After a moment, she leant forward and rested her forehead on the back of his neck.

"Hermione," he rasped, "Hermione, I think we need to talk."

"Mmm, you smell nice. Have you just shaved?"

"What? Oh, er, yes. Listen Hermione, I need to..."

"Ron," she interrupted firmly, "you and I really owe Ginny a whopping Christmas present this year."

"Er, can we talk about that later? It's just that I'd like to say something..."

With this, Hermione leaned into Ron's back, put her arms tight around his chest and kissed him just behind his right ear. Her heart thumping in her ears, she said,

"Ron, this is ridiculous. If we really are too afraid, too cowardly to speak what's so evidently on both our minds, we shall whisper it instead," and she did indeed begin to whisper. "Ron, oh God I'm so embarrassed! Ron, I love you. You are the last boy I expected to fall in love with, but I did. I can't help it and I'm not sorry.

"When we're apart I wonder where you are and what you're doing. When I know I'm going to see you I start to shake and my mouth goes dry. And when we're together, I want to hold you and, and..."

"And kiss you?" whispered Ron.

With this, he turned around and rose to his knees. His hands rose up, caressing Hermione's arms and shoulders and eased into her hair. She closed her eyes as he gently cupped her face and tilted it to one side. Expecting to be kissed, she shivered when she felt Ron's lips brush her left ear and murmur,

"I've watched you for so long. I didn't deny my feelings for you: I just convinced myself that you could never feel the same way for me. I tried to look at other girls but that didn't work, how could it? Hermione, you're the most attractive girl in the whole bloody school!

"I'm a chicken Hermione; a chicken, an arse and a prat. Sorry. I should have said something a long time ago. I want to be everything you want from a man. Will you let me try to do that for you, for us?"

Hermione's nose was pressed against Ron's neck. He smelled so good; nothing fancy really, just shaving soap. Locks of his flaming hair fluttered across the view she had of the gently swaying branches. It was the same colour as the autumn leaves.

She drew back slightly, looked into Ron's eyes and mouthed,

"Yes."

They ran their hands up each other's backs and began to kiss. At first they were tentative, but they soon lost their inhibitions and melted into a fierce embrace. They continued to whisper together for quite some time.

Just a metre behind the kneeling couple, their words were lost in the gentle sigh of the breeze through the trees.

----------


	3. A Perfect Day

**Chapter 3 – A Perfect Day**

_Darkness_

"-rry!"

_Warm heaviness_

"-arry!"

_Limbs moving through syrup_

"...or I'll pull the covers off you!"

_Difficult to draw breath._

"Harry, come on! Get up you lazy git!"

"Mmm? Leave me alone."

"Harry!" complained Ron, pulling the covers off Harry.

"Sod off Weasley!" groaned Harry.

"Harry, it's almost half-past-six!"

"I'll kill you and I'll kill the Chudley Cannons!" he wheezed, trying to recover his blankets from

Ron.

"If you get up now we'll be able to shower and get downstairs before everyone else!"

_"Avada Kedavra!"_ croaked Harry, unconvincingly. He was pointing a one of yesterday's socks at Ron.

"Merlin alone knows how you ever beat You-Know-Who when you can't even get up in the morning! It's going to be a bloody brilliant day Harry, just you wait and see!" With this, Ron began to jump up and down on his bed.

Harry propped himself up on his elbows and desperately tried to open his eyes. He fumbled around on the bedside table for his glasses, but couldn't find them. Wiping his hand over his face, he swung his legs out bed and sat up.

"You really do need your glasses, don't you Harry? I can't see a thing when I'm wearing them!" Ron exclaimed as he continued to bounce up and down on the bed.

With a huge sigh and shaking his head, Harry pushed himself off bed. He was so tired he felt as if he'd taken a knock to the head from a Bludger. Crossing the passage, he entered the tiny bathroom which served him and Ron and, occasionally, Charlie. It was probably a legacy of the broom cupboard under the Dursleys' stairs, but Harry really rather liked small rooms. Hogwarts was fine, of course, but that was different. When he thought about the future he saw himself in a small, cosy cottage somewhere; a place which had no unused space, where every room had a purpose just like in the Burrow.

He turned the taps and luxuriated in the feeling of the hot water running over his head and down his body. There was more water pressure than usual, he noticed. Normally, by the time he got up, Mrs Weasley was in the kitchen preparing breakfast and the water came out of the shower head as a dribble. The powerful flow of water today was probably due to the fact that it was...

"Almost half-past-six!" spluttered Harry. "He's mad! Since when did Ron start getting up at dawn?" Then the penny dropped. Ron was hyper, happy and wanted the day to start as soon as possible. He must have told Hermione how he felt. And judging by the idiotic look he had on his face, she hadn't knocked him back. Harry grinned and grabbed the soap.

Not five minutes later he burst into the bedroom where Ron, looking ridiculous in Harry's glasses and wearing a Muggle skiing hat, was fully clothed and adjusting his hair in the mirror.

"You didn't finally pluck up the courage to tell Hermione, did you?" asked Harry, excitedly.

Ron assumed a haughty expression, an aristocratic accent and replied, "What do you mean, _'...pluck up the courage...'?_ My dear boy, I had to wait until I could be sure she wouldn't die from excitement when I swept her off her feet.

"You cheeky sod!" cried Harry. "You've been too chicken to say anything for months! I bet you didn't say anything, you haven't got the balls! I bet _she_ said something to _you_" he added, with a nasty grin on his face.

Ron half-turned and looked down at Harry from the end of his upturned nose. "My good man," he said, placing a Sickle in his eye as if it were a monocle, "mind how you speak to me or I'll have you horse-whipped."

Laughing, Harry launched himself at his friend, pinned him to the bed and then started to ruffle the mop of red hair.

"Ow, Harry, get off!"

"No way Weasley, not until you admit the truth!"

"I'll put stink bombs in your trunk for a month if you don't get off me."

"Ron and Hermione sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G," sang Harry.

"You're dead Potter. I am going to feed you to the Thestrals!"

"This is a threat coming from someone who can't speak to girls? Oh, I'm shaking!"

"I'm going to give you such a kick up the arse!"

So happy were the two friends that they did not notice as Mrs Weasley, still in her dressing gown, closed their door with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes. It was nice, she thought, to see them behaving as boys ought to behave. Too often had they been worried about matters of life and death. Today of all days they should be able to let their hair down.

The smile rapidly faded from her face as she heard something smash in their room.

----------

Heel was shivering. He was shivering and it had nothing to do with the dank air in this long-forgotten crypt. Nor did it have anything to do with the ring of masked and robed Death Eaters surrounding him. After all, was it not his greatest wish to join their ranks?

No. Heel was shivering as he was more afraid now than he had ever thought it possible to be in his life.

Having procured the Muggle book from that odious little man Borgin, Heel had found himself at a loss. How exactly did one go about contacting the Death Eaters? It was hardly practical to present oneself at the nearest public owlery and address a parchment to 'You-Know-Who', was it?

It had turned out to be unnecessary, however, when he had received a message delivered by a raven summoning him to a meeting. This was but two days after he had taken possession of the ledger. It had not been intimated who had sent the message, nor had it been necessary to. Heel knew who it was from.

Long before dawn he had left the humble lodgings where bad fortune had forced him to stay, as he had been directed to do by the parchment. Pulling his collar up against the chilling mist that covered the land, he had proceeded to the enormous plaza behind Gringotts Bank. The light from the enchanted lamps cast hardly enough light to illuminate the fountain. There he waited.

With a mounting sense of trepidation, Heel had begun to think twice about the business in which he found himself. He had almost been on the point of leaving when he heard to steady clip-clop of an approaching horse.

Straining his eyes in a vain attempt to penetrate the chilling gloom of the pre-dawn fog, he had not noticed the stealthy approach of the dark shapes behind him.

----------

The Weasleys had surpassed themselves. Set in the garden of the Burrow, under sunnier skies than had been seen in quite some time, was a picture-perfect wedding scene.

Long trestle tables set with pristine white cotton tablecloths lined one side of the garden. They were groaning under the weight of the delicious-looking food that they bore. Every conceivable variety of delicacy was present but with the Weasleys being who they were, most of it fell under the category of 'repast'. Good, solid home-cooking was the order of the day - Molly Weasley's speciality.

The golden crusts of pork pies and apple pies glinted side by side in the weak autumn sun. Vast tureens of gravy, cranberry sauce, apple sauce, buttered vegetables and brandy butter dotted the tables at regular intervals. Crisp, roasted joints of pork, beef and lamb were interspersed with enormous glistening turkeys. The various desserts looked so rich and unhealthy as to warrant an antidote. In fact, not a few of the guests had been seen to raise their eye-brows and surreptitiously check potions prepared against the coming discomfort of over-indulgence.

At the bottom of the garden, the altar had been prepared. Simple yet delicate, a framework of interwoven branches had been seeded with a variety of flowers which had then been induced to grow into magnificent bouquets by some impressive wand-work by Minerva McGonagall.

In the centre of the garden were straight-backed chairs, divided by the traditional centre aisle into two halves. Fleur's relatives to the left and Bill's to the right. All in all, it looked as if nothing could go wrong. Mrs Weasley was surprisingly relaxed for the day of the wedding of her beloved Bill.

Mr Weasley was busy seating all of the guests in the correct sections. This wasn't too difficult as all of Fleur's relatives were either French or Bulgarian and spoke English with strong accents. Fred and George, dressed up to the nines, seemed suspiciously eager to help their father. Ginny, perhaps ungenerously, suggested that this wasn't due to any great desire on their part to help the day go smoothly, but rather to speak to all of '...Phlegm's pretty-though-dim..." female friends and relatives. Hermione had actually openly smirked at this comment.

On the other side of the garden, on a slightly smaller table than the food, were the presents.

----------

The knot on the back of Heel's head would not stop aching. He had awoken some hours earlier on the dank, cold floor of a darkened chamber.

Instructed to remain seated on the floor by one of the six robed and masked figures surrounding him, Heel had wisely decided not to protest. After all, if he was right in thinking that the book he still had in his possession was as valuable as he thought, then he had nothing to fear. Quite the opposite, he expected to be richly rewarded and to be elevated to a high rank among the Death Eaters.

Hours later, with his whole body aching from the cold and the damp, Heel was sorely tempted to protest his rough treatment. He was trying to work up the courage to say something when ... when something _changed_.

The Dark Lord was here.

Heel did not need the almost imperceptible movement among his guards to tell him that. They had turned ever so slightly to orient themselves towards the ancient iron door to which he had been told to keep his back. Nor did he need the faint sounds in the distance of hurried footsteps and urgent whispers.

Gilberto Heel had only to heed his bowels, which had turned to water.

There was an innate _wrongness_ that Heel was sensing. His guts were in spasm and his heart was racing. He was a solid man who had little time for seers, diviners or other crackpots from the 'soft' magics. But now he was experiencing something he had never before, and would never again care to. He was sensing the approach of a malevolent presence: something so at odds with nature that even he could sense it.

The guards were, if possible, more rigid, more immobile than they had been before. Behind some of there masks he could make out the unmoving pinpoints of light as they stared at nothing.

The presence was moving closer.

----------

Bill, whose face was still severely scarred despite the best efforts of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, cut a dashing figure with is long hair and brand-new black robes. The wounds on his face had closed, but looked as if they were very fresh. Nobody supposed they would ever look much better.

"He looks quite dashing, really," Hermione had said. "I wonder what Professor Moody looked like when he was younger?"

"Moody!" spluttered Ron. "Don't let Bill hear you say that; he'll have a fit! Let's hope he doesn't end up looking like Moody."

At this, Ginny had cleared her throat and waggled her eye-brows, the age-old Weasley children's sign for an approaching adult. Raising her hand to her mouth and giving a fake cough, she'd uttered, "Moody!" Ron's look of horror as he whirled around, fully expecting to be confronted by a livid Alastor Moody was worth having to restrain him as he tried to hex his sister, Fred and George later insisted, through gales of laughter.

Fleur was a picture: she wore a diaphanous robe of palest blue and held a posy of tiny white flowers. Ron, having barely calmed down from before, had whistled appreciatively. "They're called 'Joan of Arc's Tears'," he said. "Dead rare, they are. You can't buy them anywhere. They only grow in France and they never, ever wilt. They're supposed to bring good luck." Leaning in towards Harry, he had whispered, "Bill will need it if you ask me." Harry had grinned at this, but said nothing. Fleur had never irritated him as much as she did the Weasleys.

In the style of weddings between wizards and witches, the couple walked between their guests with their hands joined at shoulder level. Bill was grave, though with a small smile on his face. Fleur was ecstatic and made no effort to hide the fact. With a wide smile on her face and perhaps just a little bit flushed, she floated up the aisle.

An old professor of Arthur and Molly's from Hogwarts, Hieronymus Massingbird, was to preside over the ceremony. A husky man with snow-white hair, he was a retired Under-Secretary of the Ministry of Magic.

"Witches and Wizards of Quality," his voice boomed out the traditional words, "pray be silent for the joining of two of our number!"

The chatter from the two sides of the aisle died almost immediately. All eyes were on the young couple, who had turned their back on Massingbird in order to address their friends and families.

"Woman and man who stand before us," intoned the crowd with reasonable coordination, "why are we here today?"

"To witness the union of two adults who desire the company of each other for life," said Bill and Fleur together. With this, Molly Weasley began to sob into her handkerchief.

"Man, have you asked her?" said the guests.

"I have," said Bill with an emphatic nod of his head.

"Woman, did he ask you?"

" 'E did," replied Fleur as she looked upon Bill with love in her eyes.

"Woman, did you accept him?" came the chorus.

"I did," said Fleur.

"Man, will you take her?"

"Damn right I will!" said Bill to the mirth of the crowd, and with this the couple turned their backs on the guests and faced Massingbird again.

Resplendent in midnight blue robes, Massingbird smiled and held his palms over the heads on the young couple. "With these words you wed yourselves. Be amiable to each other, and may your union bear fruit in the fullness of time." Smiling broadly, Massingbird had withdrawn to the side of the altar, allowing Bill and Fleur centre stage.

All those present, with the exception of the bride and groom, drew their wands and sent showers of sparks into the air. Every colour of the rainbow intermingled and the resulting sight far outshone the confetti which Muggles threw at their weddings.

Full of good cheer, the crowd gathered to watch as the newly-married couple began to open their presents.

----------

"Ssspeak!"

Heel gasped, but whether due to shock or pain he could not tell. He was convinced that he was about to die. Why had he ever conceived of this idiot plan? What power had possessed him that he voluntary bring himself closer to this aberrant force which was now so close that he could smell its sickly odour?

Grovelling on his knees with his forehead pressed into a puddle, Heel struggled to speak. "My L-L-Lord," he gasped, "I bring you a morsel; something which I hope will amuse you and prove to be useful. I ..."

"Sssilence! You presume to understand what I would either find amusing or useful? I - Lord Voldemort!"

Heel actually squealed as a piercing pain shot through his body. He was going to die! No, they would be that generous: he would be tortured to death. The book! His only hope lay in the book!

"M-Most powerful you are, Dread Lord," he stammered. "I would never presume to anticipate your wants or desires. I am so much l-lower than you as to be incapable of doing so. I s-s-seek only to offer my meagre gift to you in the hope that you deem it w-worthy." With this he pressed his supine form even deeper into the dank stone floor and awaited his fate.

"My Lord," came a cold and measured voice, "if I might ascertain the nature of this book? If, after all, Borgin was not deceiving us about its contents..."

"Get on with it Sssnape!" snapped the intolerable voice. Heel whimpered under its lash.

Severus Snape pulled back his hood to reveal a face even colder than it had ever been before. Pulling out his wand, he snarled "Accio ledger!"

His long, pale hands caressed the soft leather covering of the book. Quickly, he opened it and deftly turned its pages. His eyes were hungry in the dim light as he searched for a jewel of information beyond compare. Without warning, he sank to his knees and offered the book to the tall, cloaked figure.

"It is here, my master!" said Snape in a voice charged with barely-suppressed emotion.

If Snape's hands were slender and pale, they were nothing compared to the fingertips which lightly touched the page of the book now. Looking more like porcelain than flesh-and-blood, the slender, inhuman limb was quickly withdrawn to the voluminous sleeve of the cape.

"Yesss! This is it. This will be an aid to Lord Voldemort."

The figure turned slightly in the direction of Heel and seemed to be regarding him.

"It is odd, is it not Severus, that this man should have found this item when you and I knew not of its continued existence?"

"My Lord," said Snape, his eyes shining, "this book was protected by the Fidelus charm. When the keeper was killed by the Aurors, no one knew of its whereabouts. It was considered destroyed."

"Yet dessstiny has brought it to me again, Severus. It is fitting that this should happen just as Harry Potter will see his friends die." The figure turned its head down towards the kneeling figure of Snape. "When, Severus, when?"

Looking up with hungry eyes, Snape answered, "As we speak my lord."

----------


	4. Our Fathers

**Chapter 4 – Our Fathers**

The sounds were muffled at first. The thin pale boy couldn't make head or tail of what his ears were trying to tell him. Slowly, as he stared in disbelief at what lay before him, the muffled strands came together into a cacophony of terror. The screams of mothers and their children washed over him as did the urgent shouts of the more level-headed witches and wizards giving orders and demanding help.

And family members wailing their fresh, raw grief.

Harry was unable to move or speak. Somebody was talking to him, trying to pull him away, but he paid them no heed. Never had he felt like this before, not even when he had faced Voldemort in the graveyard after having seen Cedric Diggory killed in cold blood.

The two bodies didn't seem to be dead. They seemed to be, well, dirty. Yes, that was it. They were merely dirty: like someone who had just been caught in a cloud of dust. The strange, uncomfortable arrangement of their limbs, however, spoke as to the truth of the matter. These two were dead: one with the red hair of the Weasleys and the other with the blond hair of the Delacours.

Losing control of his legs, he slumped to the floor and began to weep.

----------

Dusk was falling and the fairy lights were beginning to come into their own. Under a glorious evening sky, Hermione, Ron, Harry and the Twins were sitting with their backs against the wall of the Burrow. All those present with flaming red hair were in various states of inebriation; Fred and George having unwisely tried their hands at a whole bottle of fire whiskey, whilst Ron had eaten one rum-laced cauldron cake too many.

Harry sat slightly apart from the others, well fed and at peace with the world. His hands rested on top of his distended belly, their fingers interlaced. With sleepy eyes he watched the crowd, quite content to remain safely anonymous for once. No one could accuse Harry Potter of being a shrinking violet, but occasionally he would feel the need to be left alone whilst at the same time being in the company of people. His name and scar ordinarily did not afford him this opportunity, but tonight he had exactly what he wanted.

Watching the families, friends and strangers come together and interact was both fascinating and uncomfortable for Harry. Besides the Weasleys, he had never had the opportunity to practice his small talk for family occasions. School was different as you could always find at least one thing you had in common with a fellow Hogwarts student: well, all except Slytherins maybe.

Here the conversations were of an entirely different order. Some were for catching up on all the news since the participants had last seen each other. Others were for enquiring after future plans. Families being families, a small proportion of the conversations were reserved for boasting about the achievements of one's relatives. Some of these things puzzled Harry whereas others made perfect sense.

His eyelids grew even heavier and to the sound of Hermione torturing the Weasleys with a seemingly never-ending stream of 'I told you not to eat so much' or 'You ought to have stopped drinking after one glass Fred', Harry drifted off into a light doze.

As Harry and the Twins slept off their respective excesses, Ron awoke to the gentle caress of Hermione's hand stroking his forehead. This wasn't, however, the idyllic situation that it would have been on any other day. The combination of his thumping heart, churning belly and aching head almost immediately drove him to jump to his feet in search of a more private place to vomit. As he made his ungainly exit, Hermione leaned back to look up the stars and hugged herself. With the small smile that lifted the corners of her mouth, she didn't look displeased.

Ron, meanwhile, was on his hands and knees, retching for all he was worth. He had emptied his stomach in short order, but couldn't stop his rebelling body from trying to purge itself some more. It was as if he had taking one of the Twins' Puking Pastilles, but without the escape of the remedy that his brothers so thoughtfully provided their clients. Feeling genuinely wretched, Ron was surprised when a small potion vile appeared before his face.

"I think you need this more than I do, young man," said an unfamiliar voice. "I have a little more experience than you when it comes to debauchery, it would appear," the voice continued, "but my age seems to have at long last conquered my over-active appetites."

Without so much as looking up, Ron grabbed the vial and upended it into his mouth. Not caring what it was, he flopped onto his back with his eyes closed. Maybe it would be a deadly poison and he would die quickly, he half-wished. It wasn't poison, of course, and the relief he felt was almost immediate. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud and warming his entire body. Opening his eyes and looking up, he could just make out Hieronymus Massingbird, his parents' old teacher.

"Thanks Professor Massingbird," he said, managing to look ashamed of himself. "Sorry about that."

"There's no need to apologise Ronald. I promise you I've been in the same sorry state many more times than you can imagine. Come on, up you get!" With this he reached down and pulled Ron to his feet. "And please, call me Hero." At Ron's raised eyebrows, Massingbird let out a rich belly laugh and added, "Not because I am a hero, boy; I wasn't sorted into Gryffindor. It's just that there's little else I can do with such a hideous name!" His continued laughter was infectious and Ron soon found himself laughing along.

"Would it surprise you to know that I once gave your father detention when I found him in a similar state of disrepair after the Yule Ball?" asked the old man, leaning towards Ron and whispering conspiratorially. At Ron's look of disbelief he simply laughed longer and more richly than he had before. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Massingbird said, "Ah Ronald! Let me fill you in on a few of your father's adventures before he was tamed by Molly."

With this, he put his arm around Ron's shoulders and walked with him into the gathering darkness. Every few minutes, his booming laughter echoed out across the garden.

----------

Fleur and Bill, meanwhile, were wending their way slowly through the gathered guests and looking much more relaxed than they had done earlier in the day. Now that they were officially husband and wife, they were free to wander as they wished. Both were dressed a little more comfortably than before, and with a glass of wine in their hands they were beginning to feel rather mellow.

Stopping here and there to exchange pleasantries with family members and friends, they were slowly working their way through the mound of wedding gifts. Tradition dictated that they open a gift and then personally speak to those who had given it. Having been raised by Muggles, Hermione and Harry thought it was a nice, if rather long-winded way, of conducting a wedding. Nobody seemed to be in a particular rush to do anything and the result was a never-ending reception in the garden of the Burrow.

Down to the last few presents, Fleur and Bill were joined by their respective parents. To the great relief of the bride and groom, the Delacours had raised no objections to the marriage. Having lost several family members to the Death Eaters under Voldemort's last regime, they were quite impressed with the Weasleys' long involvement in the fight against the Dark Lord.

The fact that Bill had been tainted by a werewolf was also of little import. After all, the Delacours were of mixed blood themselves. The fact that their family had chosen to mix Human and Veela blood had earned them the special wrath of the Pureblood Death Eaters.

Molly was almost beside herself with joy. The day had been a resounding success, she had seen the marriage of the first of her precious children and her thoughts were already turned to the prospect of grandchildren. With her arm around Arthur, she had actually relaxed enough to chat quite naturally with Henri and Ivonne Delacour.

"Is there anything I can get you Ivonne?" Molly asked smiling at the slim blonde woman.

"No Molly, nothing, everything 'as been just fine; it 'as all been wonderful. Golden days are few and far between," said Ivonne, "but this 'as been one of them."

Molly basked in the warmth of this praise: she couldn't have been happier.

----------

To put it quite simply, Ron had never enjoyed spending time with an adult as much as he had with Hero. The man was so laid back he made Charlie Weasley seem uptight. Everyone has heard about older people going through a 'Second Childhood', but Ron had always thought this to be complete rubbish. In his limited experience, old people were boring or strict or bossy or nosey, or all of these things at the same time. Or mental, he added hastily remembering Dumbledore - Dumbledore had definitely been mental.

Hieronymus Massingbird, on the other hand, was a great laugh. He was friendly, funny and didn't seem to want to talk about himself all the time. For an adult, he seemed to spend a lot of not only listening to tales of Ron's pranks, but also actively encouraging him to tell more. Had he not been an old friend of his parents' as well as a member of the Order, Ron would have thought him to be a Death Eater in disguise, trying to butter him up and catch him of his guard.

His sides aching from having laughed so much, Ron was happy when a companionable silence fell between them. Massingbird was busy fussing over his small pipe. He always seemed to be cleaning it, packing it with the aromatic tobacco he favoured or, failing all else, puffing at it. Ron was interested to note that as he played with his small pipe, the old man was staring quite openly at the slumbering form of Harry. For the first time that night, his face looked lined and careworn: it was the face of a worried old man.

After a particularly impressive burst of fireworks, he had tapped the bowl of his pipe against the heel of his boot, shaken his head and muttered, "The light that burns twice as bright."

"Sorry Hero, what did you say?" asked Ron, still embarrassed to be addressing the older man by his first name.

Clearing his throat he said, "The light that burns twice as brightly burns only half as long, my young friend," and nodding at Harry he added, "and he has burned so very, very brightly." Looking over at his young companion's uncomfortable expression, Massingbird smiled. "Poor old Harry," he said. "Everyone is worried about what he can do, but not about him; not about his feelings."

"Yeah," Ron muttered, resenting the fact that Harry had once again stolen the limelight.

"But," continued Massingbird, "I imagine it must be every bit as bad for his friends. They are gifted individuals in their own right - they ought to be proud of their own achievements. It is not their fault that all of the praise and attention that is lavished on young Harry belongs, in part, to them."

Ron squirmed under the piercing gaze of the older man. He seemed to be reading Ron's mind.

"Hero, were you by any chance sorted into Ravenclaw?"

Massingbird's rolling laughter once again boomed out across the garden.

----------

Bill took the penultimate parcel and shook it vigorously. Quite a few of the guests were paying attention now as, with the opening of the final present, the day would officially come to an end. He mugged to the crowd by waggling his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner. Fleur, laughing along with the spectators, took the small, exquisitely wrapped parcel from her husband and gave him an exasperated look.

"My 'usband," she said archly, " 'e is too clumsy to open this one!" At this quip, the crowd again laughed appreciatively. "Therefore, I will ask my new father to open it on 'is behalf!"

Arthur and Henri approached the young couple with broad smiles on their faces. They were perhaps just a little tipsy, but even the exacting standards of Molly Weasley could find nothing to fault with such behaviour on this, the first wedding day of any of their respective children.

Taking the parcel, the two men made an exaggerated show of courtesy, each insisting that the other opened the parcel. Demonstrating mock-outrage, Henri folded his arms and half-turned his back on Arthur Weasley. Laughing, the red-haired man began to open the gift as Henri placed an arm over his shoulders. After this, things happened so quickly that later on only Alastor Moody could be relied upon for an accurate account of events.

Arthur withdrew a small oval object from the parcel. It was a dull, matt green in colour and seemed to emerge with a clear metallic ring. Both men frowned and leaned closer to see just exactly what this curio was.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Arthur Weasley. In the space of just one second, he looked at his son and daughter-in-law, then over at his wife and then there was the crack of someone disapparating. Unfortunately for Henri Delacour, the spell also transported anyone who was touching the caster.

"Grenade!" screamed Moody, who had seemed to appear from nowhere. He had drawn his wand and began to search for the two men with both his mundane and magical eyes.

But it was too late. Not twenty metres from the wall behind the wedding altar at the head of the garden, there came a flash and a deafening crack.

"Bollocks!" snarled Moody as he began to stump his way over to the site of the explosion, as fast as his wooden leg would carry him.

He needn't have rushed.

Arthur and Henri were dead and beyond the help of anyone.

----------

"The perfect end to the prefect day," sneered Snape, as he stood before the Scrying Glass with his master.

"Yesss, Severus," Voldemort whispered, "a perfect beginning."

----------


	5. Si Vis Pacem Para Bellum

**Chapter 5 – Si Vi Pacum Para Bellum**

Ron was on his favourite squashy sofa in the lounge of the Burrow, sandwiched between his two best friends. His head was on Hermione's shoulder and his feet on Harry's lap. Though both of his friends were stroking him and talking to him without respite, he gave no sign that he knew they were there.

Similarly, Ginny lay curled up with her head in Mrs Weasley's lap. Both of them were asleep, but it looked as if neither of them had found any measure of peace in their dreams. Their faces were wan and pale despite the dancing flames in the fireplace: today nothing would be able to warm the hearts or home of the Weasleys.

Outside the sky was an iron grey and a freezing drizzle covered the country from coast to coast. The sudden cold snap had taken the Muggles by surprise, as their satellites had detected no hint of approaching clouds or plummeting temperatures. The magical residents of the country needed no technology to tell them that this weather wasn't natural, nor did they need spells: they felt it in their bones.

It was not long past dawn on the second day after the wedding and there was still no word from either Moody or the Weasley boys. Immediately after the attack, the old Auror had gathered up Charlie and the Twins and then disappeared. Bill had escorted his wife and mother-in-law to an unknown location and then joined his brothers. Their eyes had been cold and their faces grim.

Hermione had been left in charge at the Burrow as she had been the only one who was in the least bit functional. She had used the fact that she had to organise baths and food for the others to stave off her own growing sense of sickness and loss. When finally she had seen to the welfare of her charges, she had collapsed alongside them on the sofa. Hardly twenty words had been spoken since, by unspoken agreement, the family and friends had gathered together in the lounge to sleep. Huddling together for mutual support, they had passed the hours in fitful sleep of wakeful brooding.

Harry started out of his reverie with a stinging sensation on his neck. Turning his head, he saw that Hermione had been prodding him with her wand and was now nodding her head vigorously towards the fireplace. The flames were changing colour between green and purple, the signal that someone wanted to floo to the Burrow. As only members of the Order were able to access this particular fireplace, Harry eased himself out from under Ron's legs and approached it.

Drawing his own wand, he tapped the wickedly sharp blades that protected the Burrow from unwanted visitors by covering the fire and muttered, _"Espadas Retractum."_ With a silky whisper, the magical blades retracted into the mantelpiece and after a moment the flames settled into a bright green. Stepping back with his wand held ready in front of him, Harry awaited the visitor.

He was not surprised to see Minerva McGonagall step from the fire, but he did raise an eyebrow when Madam Pomfrey soon followed. Puzzled by the hard look that Professor McGonagall directed at him when she had finished dusting herself off, Harry realized he was still covering them with his wand.

"Sorry Professor McGonagall," he said quietly, lowering the wand.

"That's quite all right Potter. We should all take a leaf out of Moody's book in these times. Now, be a good boy and see if you can't rustle up a cup of tea for us both. Using the Floo network at our age is hardly conducive to good health!" She failed to add that as she had set eyes on Harry with his wand raised, she had seen something that few people had ever seen: the Boy Who Lived.

Between her amused disapproval of his high-jinks and genuine concern for his well-being, Minerva McGonagall found it difficult to accept the very patent fact that Harry had faced Voldemort on several occasions. On top of that, he had battled Death Eaters and magical creatures without count. What she had seen when she saw Harry on the balls of his feet, wand drawn and ready for trouble was ... disconcerting to say the very least. No boy should be able to look as Harry Potter did: like a dangerous and capable wizard accustomed to violence. His eyes, for Merlin's sake - they had been like two points of hatred and rage!

All of this passed through her head in a flash before she shook these thoughts away. Never being one to give herself over to mawkish introspection, Professor McGonagall straightened her back and moved towards Molly. Fighting back her own tears, she knew that she had to be the strict disciplinarian if she was to be able to prevent Arthur's widow from breaking down completely.

----------

Outside, Aurors from the Ministry of Magic prowled the land surrounding the Burrow. They were going over the garden with a fine-toothed comb in search for clues regarding the attack, but it was all to no avail. The enemy had probably never even been present. Professor McGonagall had been nettled by Moody's grudging respect of the attackers' methodology when he had talked to her after enquiring about Molly's state of mind.

"You see, both Muggles and magic users see the world in black and white," he had growled. "There is magic and there is technology, but nothing in between. This Manichean view is, of course, utter drivel and the result of lazy thinking!"

She had taken a deep breath, as was her wont when dealing with Alastor, in an attempt to tamp down on her growing anger. "Are you suggesting that Arthur and Molly are responsible for what happened? If you are you'll have me to deal..."

"Relax Minerva! The fault lies squarely in the lap of the Ministry of Magic. They were the ones who insisted that they provide the security for this ill-advised public gathering of the Dark Lord's enemies. And yes, it bloody well was ill-advised!" he roared at the sight of her reddening complexion. "If they hadn't had a bloody wedding, nobody would have been able to bloody well bomb it now, would they lassie?"

The elderly Transfiguration professor had swallowed hard. Moody was, after all, perfectly correct. If ever there had been a time to heed his brand of constant paranoia, it was now. "You're quite right Alastor - unfortunately. Tell me, how exactly does this 'grenade' device work? How was it able to penetrate the security?"

"It's a chemical device. A simple idea, like all good ideas are. We all know that Muggle technology cannot work in high magical energy areas, so we don't worry about their ridiculous weapons. The Ministry of Magic Aurors are competent when it comes to detecting magical attacks of any kinds, be they charms, potions, curses or what have you." He had paused and rubbed his hands over his face. Quite suddenly he looked every bit as old as the new Headmistress knew him to be.

"No," he continued, "the beauty of this attack was that it was neither magical nor technological: it was chemical. When the grenade was taken out of the box, a spring-loaded lever broke a tiny vial of acid. This acid activated a fuse which in turn activated a small quantity of chemical explosive. The explosive expanded too rapidly for the metal casing to accommodate and the result was that it ruptured.

"Quite ingenious these Muggle engineers when it comes to designing weapons of indiscriminate destruction. The metal casing is fractured into miniscule fragments which individually cause hardly any damage at all. Cumulatively, however, the blood loss from a hundred wounds coupled with the concussive force almost always kills those within close range.

"Arthur knew what it was, of course. Damn good job he did know! He disapparated away from everybody in order to save them. Had he hesitated, Bill, Fleur, Molly and Ivonne would have died at the very least – quite probably a dozen more. It was tough luck for Henri that he was touching Arthur at the time." With this he had sighed, stopped talking and looked his companion straight in the eye.

"I'm tired Minerva, old and tired. I don't have the appetite for this anymore. To be an Auror you need to be young and angry. It helps if you enjoy it just a little bit too – no matter how much you complain about it. I'll guard the Weasleys to my very death, but I'll be damned if I'm going to go off with young Potter. I'll just be a millstone round his neck."

He pointed towards three youngish men approaching them. "These young pups have been assigned to protect and aid Potter and Co.," he said with a small smile. "They were hand-picked by me, Minerva; they aren't Scrimgeour's men," he added with a significant look. "Their names are Iain Knatchbull, Jerry Puddicombe and Bob Choeke."

Professor McGonagall's lips compressed into an even thinner line than usual. They were no older than Bill Weasley – they were practically children themselves. What was the world coming to?

----------

Back inside the Burrow, Lupin had arrived to check on Harry. The two friends, separated by a generation, looked at one another. One was young and vital whereas the other was mature and careworn. Each of them knew the other's mind; impetuousness versus caution, anger against compassion and energy as opposed to stealth.

They embraced.

Harry had sworn that he wouldn't cry, but at the end he couldn't help it. As he sobbed into Remus' shoulder, he had wailed, "It's not fair! What did Mr Weasley ever do to anyone? He was..." At this, he had gulped and changed tack. "I'm going to get Voldemort. I'm not going to kill him, at least not straight away. I'm going to make him suffer. I'll let Ron torture him for a hundred years!"

"Harry, Harry. Now is not the time for hate - now is the time for strength. You have to help the Weasleys - your family - to recover. That is you priority. After that, you and I are going to peel Voldemort of his skin. I swear it."

"I won't wait!" exclaimed Harry.

"You won't have to Harry. Arthur's death has served as the impetus to finally convince the public that something must be done, that action must be taken against Voldemort and his followers.

"There were too many witnesses for the Ministry to hush this up. It helps that some of the guests were from foreign countries as that means the attack receives wider attention. This was a wedding, Harry - a wedding! Had Arthur been poking his nose into somebody's affairs, or searching their property there would very probably be less of an outcry."

"But he wasn't," said Harry quietly.

"No," agreed Remus, "he wasn't. He was in his own house, minding his own business and marrying his son off. Now, Harry, you have to listen to me. I guarantee you won't want to do what I suggest, but it's the only way to end this once and for all."

Like two conspirators, the pair drew closer to each other in the flickering shadows cast by the fire, muttering the rest of their conversation.

----------

Rufus Scrimgeour was hunched over a mountain of paper on his desk. He had been working for almost thirty-six hours without a break, but his quill maintained the same pace as it scratched its way across the parchment. At his side, several trays full of cold and congealed food went unnoticed.

At the four loud knocks at his door, the Minister for Magic looked up with irritation. The knock was well known to him as it belonged to his assistant, Amity Oldcorn. She was the only person who would have the guts to disturb him anyway. A middle-aged witch who looked remarkably like a chipmunk poked her head around the door.

"Visitors," she grunted.

"Damn you, Oldcorn! I said no interruptions. Are you deaf or stupid?" he snarled.

"It's your funeral, not mine," she said shrugging. Just five seconds after she slammed the door, he was out of his chair and limping towards it. He couldn't ignore Amity as she wouldn't disturb him unless it was to his advantage. Despite their caustic words, there was mutual respect between them as they had worked together as Aurors for over twenty years.

"All right smart-arse," he snarled, having wrenched the door open, "what's so all-fired important?"

"Potter," said the ageing witch, pointing at the visitor with her quill.

Harry was standing, covered in soot, with his foot placed on the side of the fireplace. He didn't look as if he intended staying a moment longer than strictly necessary. Scrimgeour hesitated as he laid eyes on the legend. He was torn between anger and desire; anger because the young fool wouldn't help the Ministry, and desire as he had a shrewd idea why Potter was here in his office.

"I'll do it," said Harry without preamble.

"And what is it, Mr Potter, that you will do?"

"I'll be your poster boy. I'll give you whatever you want; public information posters, interviews, public hand-shakes, whatever. I'll even kiss babies if you want," he added with sarcasm.

"Indeed?" said Scrimgeour, trying to hide his rising sense of exultation. "How much will this cost me?"

"Aurors and materiel," said Harry simply. "All under the control of Alastor Moody – take it or leave it."

"Deal, Mr Potter," said the Minister tersely. "Where shall I contact you to make the arrangements?"

Harry turned and without looking back took a handful of Floo powder from the pot on the mantelpiece, threw it into the flames and said, "Hogwarts."

Rubbing his hands in ill-concealed glee, Scrimgeour said, "All hands on deck, Oldcorn. That young fool has played right into my hands."

"Or you into his," she replied rudely. "He's no one's fool and he has the Order behind him."

"Watch and learn," he said pursing his lips. "I'm not Cornelius Fudge. This is going to be fun!" He stumped back to his office with renewed vigour and began to plan for the coming war.

----------


	6. You Can Never Go Home

**Chapter 6 - You Can Never Go Home**

The Hogwarts Express was more than an icon – it was a piece of art. The shining brass of the proud old train shone in counterpoint to the more muted lustre of the polished oak and hackberry trimmings. The scarlet paint - lovingly applied by hand rather than magic - never looked anything less than perfect. Ex-students of the famous school often reflected on the beauty of the steam locomotive later in life, wondering why they hadn't appreciated it as much as they should have done when they were young.

Today, however, there were at least a few witches and wizards who were savouring the majesty of both the train and the breath-taking scenery through which it travelled. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Neville and Dean were sitting together after having chosen one of the many empty compartments available. They sat side by side, feeling the extra space around them left by the students whose parents had decided to withdraw their children from the school.

There were more than a few faces that were conspicuously absent; neither Seamus nor Luna was anywhere to be seen and a couple of Neville's Hufflepuff friends from Herbology, Crispin Waterford and Sven Sowerby, were also nowhere to be found. A smattering of students was missing from all houses, but none more so than Slytherin: to say that this house had been decimated would be an understatement. In fact, instead of making Ron's day, the very absence of the Slytherin students was slowly driving him into a rage.

"_Bloody Slytherins!" he thought to himself. "These bastards should all be in Azkaban. No, forget Azkaban – that'd be way too easy on them. Why should this bunch of scum be walking around when Dad's rotting in the ground?_

"_They're probably all at home right now, stuffing their fat faces with the very best food and wine. Bill and Fleur had to make do with some crappy home-made food for their wedding reception and these wankers are living the high life._

"_Who the hell's going to lift a finger to do anything about it? Nobody, that's who! The whole bloody system is rotten to the core. That dog turd Scrimgeour and his horde of arse-lickers are either in with Voldemort or are trying to replace him with their own damned dictatorship!_

"_And don't forget the arseholes who have dared to show up in their school uniforms with their scum-green house badges. Anyone who's in Slytherin must be a spy or a sympathiser. We should all just chuck 'em off the train – without stopping! Bastards!"_

"Ron? Ron, are you alright?" asked Hermione.

She was very worried and had been keeping an eye on him constantly since the attack. He had seemed withdrawn and upset, but not as much as he should have been after the death of his father. He was obviously keeping his emotions bottled up as much as possible. After he'd got over the initial shock, he had seemed mortified that he'd broken down and wept in public.

After greeting his friends, who had been warned by Neville and Dean not to mention Mr Weasley, Ron had simply clammed up and ignored them. Over the past hour, Hermione had watched as his face had darkened each time he'd seen a Slytherin pass the compartment. When he had started to mutter to himself, she decided that she should try to distract him.

"Ron," she said, smiling, "come and sit with us and..."

He stood up and looked down at them all with an expression of complete incomprehension on his face. The door slammed behind him as he stalked out.

----------

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - Harry's heart soared when he had first laid eyes on the magnificent castle at the age of eleven and it soared again six years later. In fact, Harry felt more affection for the place now than he had all those years ago, for now it meant that he and his friends were in with a fighting chance.

His chest was tight as he saw its towers, spires and crenulations. The pennants snapping in the wind seemed to be beckoning him. They were calling him home. From the dank depths of the Forbidden Forest and the Dungeons to the airy heights of the Astronomy Tower and the vast coolness of the Great Hall, this place was even more his home than was the Burrow. It was a place that meant the luxury of friends and companionship.

The school, however, represented so much more than a safe haven from the Dursleys - it was hope. It amused him that Hermione in particular had always seemed so shocked at his stories of his treatment at the hands of his mother's relatives. Harry snorted at the idea - of course they had been awful to him, but had he really suffered there? Ask that question to Cedric Diggory's parents or to any of the students who had suffered years of humiliation under Professor Snape or physical torture under that cow Umbridge. No, the memories of the bad years he had experienced under the Dursleys were slowly being replaced with the memories of Hogwarts.

The school would never be the same again, though – nothing would. For this reason alone Harry would have wanted to stop Voldemort. But it was now so much more personal. His parents were an abstract idea – a romantic ideal of a perfect love never lost. Mr Weasley, however, had been a force much like Remus in his life – loving and inspiring, if a little distant He gritted his teeth as he swore to himself yet again to make Voldemort and everyone connected to him pay dearly for the evil they had wrought in the world.

Arthur Weasley would not lie in his cold grave unavenged, he vowed.

----------

Ron found a trunk which had a padded lid and pulled it over to the side of the storage wagon. He heaved the heavy door open about a meter, so he could watch the countryside as the train charged along its gleaming rails. His head had been pounding and his fists clenched back there in the carriage with his friends – better that he leave than lose his temper with them. He loved them all for coming back to Hogwarts and defying Voldemort and his Death Eaters – even Dean _bloody_ Thomas.

Settling down on the trunk, he buried his face in his hands and breathed in the bitterly cold air. He didn't know how he was supposed to feel right now. His brothers would be joining him at Hogwarts and filling him in on their intelligence gathering efforts. They'd sent Pig with a message yesterday, telling him to expect them. Ron sighed and raised his head to look out of the door as the mist whipped by. Would things be different between them now?

He was unable to muster much of any emotion in particular. He knew this should disturb him, but it didn't. Soon he would be actively working against the people who'd killed his father...and his father would still be dead. He'd still be dead if Harry managed to kill Voldemort and he'd be just as dead if he and his brothers managed to kill every last Death Eater.

Harry had always been the object of his secret pity not because of being marked for death as, if Voldemort succeeded in killing Harry, the Weasleys would be next for the chop so they shared that particular fate. No, he'd pitied Harry for his lack of family. His down-turned mouth twitched briefly as he acknowledged that there were times that he resented his siblings. Hell, he could have cheerfully murdered them on a couple of occasions. But to have no parents...that must be a horrible thing.

No matter what you did, parents always forgave you and loved you. Since the death of her beloved husband, Molly Weasley had been under light sedation, effectively leaving Ron and Ginny alone in the world. He shuddered.

"Oh do budge up, Mr Weasley. I need to take the weight off my feet."

Ron jumped at the voice; he hadn't heard anyone approaching, so deep in his reverie had he been. He turned his head and was surprised to see Professor McGonagall standing by his side, smiling kindly down at him. "Sorry Professor, I didn't hear you come in." He shuffled along the trunk, scuffing the leather padding.

"Is this your trunk that you use it so casually?" she asked primly, in her mild Scottish accent.

"Why, are you going to dock some house points from Gryffindor?" asked Ron softly, with a half-smile on his face.

Arching an eyebrow, Professor McGonagall had pursed her lips and patted Ron's leg with her gloved hand. "I think we both know that those days have passed us by, Mr Weasley," she replied with a sad smile.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, looking curious. "I've never seen any professors on the Hogwarts Express, except the newbies, of course."

"And what exactly might 'newbies' be?" she asked in a tone of voice that made clear her disapproval of his choice of words.

"Er, newbies are new people or new members, Professor," he said, blushing.

Minerva McGonagall smiled. It was a good sign that this fine young man was still able to display emotions other than hate, rage and indifference. "So you were referring to new professors then? Well, for your information Mr Weasley, I am here in order to keep an eye on you all and then I shall be reserving both my eyes for Mr Potter. Indeed, just about every adult in Hogwarts will be there to ensure his safety."

"He's the man, isn't he?" Ron asked without a trace of bitterness, "He's the most important element in this mess - the one we all have to protect until he can do in Voldemort."

If the elderly witch was surprised by his having spoken the name of Voldemort openly, she didn't show it. "Oh, of course he is Ronald. Surely you must have seen that before? If ever there was someone who, as I believe they put it in the vernacular, 'drew the short straw', then our very own Mr Potter is that person."

"Poor sod!" Ron muttered with feeling.

"We are all, as you so eloquently put it, 'poor sods' Mr Weasley," agreed Professor McGonagall. "We none of us deserve this thankless task." With this said, the prim and proper old lady slid an arm around the lower back of the young man. After a few moments he once again put his face in his hands and began to cry.

For the next few minutes anybody coming into the storage wagon would have seen the odd couple there, sitting side by side: a very proper, straight-backed witch and a scruffy, unceremonious young wizard. Though one was crying openly, neither of them was in the least bit embarrassed.

Things had changed.

----------

Harry was standing on the tips of his toes and straining his eyes, desperate to catch a glimpse of the Hogwarts Express. He had been polishing his specs endlessly in the last half an hour. In the distance, there was maybe a hint of rising steam from the Hogwarts Express - perhaps just a suggestion of white against a grey haze? Lost in his own enthusiasm to see his friends again, Harry stepped up onto the very edge of the wall to gain a better vantage point, balancing precariously over a three hundred foot drop. He didn't notice as one of the three figures behind him raised his wand, preparing to catch him if by any chance he fell.

"What a tit!" whispered Bob Choeke. "You wouldn't catch me balancing on the edge of that wall. Reckon I should reel him in?" he asked with a wicked grin.

"Nah, leave him be. What you don't realise, _Roberto_, is that young Potter here has a head for heights whereas you never did. This most probably accounts for why you were crap at Quidditch," said his old friend Iain Knatchbull.

"Up yours Knatchbull! I made the team one year before you and what's more I was younger than you when I..."

"Shut it you two!" interrupted the oldest of the three, Jerry Puddicombe. "We're supposed to be inconspicuous, you know, as in 'not obvious'. If you keep this bickering up, Potter will give us the slip in short order and no mistake," he whispered urgently.

"I'd like to see him try," muttered Bob.

"Don't kid yourself," said Jerry, raising an eyebrow. "If half the stories I've heard about Potter, Granger and Weasley are true, then they're almost half as good as we were!"

This last quip raised a smile from them all. The three friends had served on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team for the majority of its legendary eight-year winning streak. Jerry was the oldest at 33-years-old, followed by Iain at 32 and Bob at 31. Though they had been separated by academic years within the school, seldom had friends been closer.

United by a love of camaraderie, pranks and humour, the three had enjoyed more than their fair share of detentions in their time. Never quite reaching the heights of the legendary Marauders, 'The Three Hufflepuffs' were nevertheless considered to be at least on par with Fred and George Weasley. After Hogwarts, nobody seemed particularly surprised that they ended up working together.

Although they were well-regarded, albeit junior Aurors, upon hearing the news of their appointment as Harry's bodyguards, Professor Sprout raised her eyebrows and had been heard to mutter something to the effect of, "...making poachers the gamekeepers." Then, having reflected upon the nature of both the guardians and their charges, she conceded that perhaps Moody was more intelligent than people gave him credit for.

----------

"Feeling better now?" asked Professor McGonagall. She had found it strange, but doubtless true, that she was more comfortable talking to students when they were upset than at any other time. She mused that this was probably due to the fact that she could change her role from disciplinarian to that of comforter. She frowned, catching herself on the verge of self-pity. Whatever else she was in this life, maudlin she was not.

"Professor, are you alright?"

"Mmm? Yes, Ronald, I am quite well. Now, I don't know about you, but I am as stiff as a board sitting here in this draught. Why don't you go back to your compartment and be with your friends?"

"I don't really want to, Professor McGonagall," muttered Ron, hanging his head.

"No? Well, if Merlin won't go to the mountain, I'll bring the mountain to Merlin. Wait here and I'll fetch Miss Granger," she said, making to stand up.

"Wait Professor, please don't! Couldn't you just stay here a while? We can close the door and...talk," he finished lamely.

Again arching an eyebrow, she nevertheless settled herself on the trunk as Ron pulled on the heavy door, leaving it slightly ajar for the fresh air. "This is more Poppy's forte than mine, but I suppose we have another few minutes before we arrive. Tell me what's on your mind, Mr Weasley."

"Before, when I was in the compartment with Ginny, Dean, Neville and Hermione, I felt strange. I looked at my friends and it seemed as if I'd never seen them before, not them or anything else. I mean, everything in the carriage looked strange; the seats, the lights – everything! It was as if I was seeing them for the first time ever. I didn't like it."

"Isn't there something else you would like to tell me?"

"Er, like what Professor?"

"After horrible, life-altering events like the one you have recently had the misfortune to experience Ronald, it is altogether common to experience feelings of violence. Especially towards the ones we love most?" she half-asked with a piercing look at her young charge.

Ron lowered his head and stared at his shoes. He didn't need to say anything more.

"It is very common, Mr Weasley, and nothing at all to feel ashamed about. Nor, might I add, is it anything to be ignored." She laid a hand on his shoulder and added, "Go. Go and be with your friends, young man. They are a treasure beyond compare and we have them for such a short time."

Ron got to his feet and quietly left the wagon.

For what little remained of the journey, Minerva McGonagall sat, looking out into the middle distance, comfortable with the ghosts from her own particular past.

----------

As the students made their way up to the castle, a lone figure rushed out to meet them.

----------


	7. Stiff Upper Lip

**Chapter 7 – Stiff Upper Lip**

Harry was acting very strangely when he met his friends at the main door of Hogwarts. For someone who was happiest when in the quiet company of his most intimate friends, he seemed to be going out of his way to draw attention to himself. Waving wildly to his fellow Gryffindors, he had charged down the stairs from the main door and barrelled straight towards them.

"Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Dean – I'm over here!" he bellowed.

"Um, hello Harry, are you alright?" asked Hermione with a puzzled expression on her face.

"Yes, of course! How are you all?" he almost shouted.

"Er, we're fine Harry. What about you; how was your journey here?" asked Ginny.

"Couldn't be better, I mustn't complain," he replied nervously, rubbing his hands together and bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Listen," he continued, "Filch has been hot on my heels all day. Do youse lot mind if we nip in the side entrance by the Herbology greenhouses?"

"Not at all mate," said Ron, shocking his friends. Since his strange behaviour on the Hogwarts Express, he had been civil enough. He hadn't struck up any conversations, but he'd nevertheless answered any questions politely and had seemed to be making an effort to interact with his friends, especially with Hermione. It had been a Red Letter Day, Dean joked, to see Hermione playing Exploding Snap with Ron.

Now here he was, laughing with Harry and acting as if none of the events of the past few days had actually happened. Putting his arm around Harry's shoulders, another first, Ron led his friend away at a brisk pace. Since when did Harry and Ron go around touching each other? Their friends traded incredulous expressions, shrugged and then trotted after them.

Just a couple of minutes later, events took a turn for the worse as they rounded the corner of the main quadrangle. The instant they were out of the sight of the main door and the horde of people milling around there, Ron exploded into action. Shoving with all his might, he managed to get Harry on his hands and knees. Ripping his wand out of his back pocket, he yelled _"Imobilarius!"_

"Ron," squealed Ginny, "what do you think you're doing?"

"Wait!" he said in an emotionless voice that brooked no argument. "This isn't Harry - are you all blind?" Leaning down towards the impostor, Ron levelled his wand just one centimetre away from his rapidly flicking eyes. "If you're a Death Eater," he said in a cold whisper, "I'm going to kill you and there's nothing you can do about it. You can't stop me, your Death Eater friends won't be able to get here in time to do anything about it and my friends sure as Hell won't try to stop me. WHO ARE YOU, YOU BASTARD?" he screamed suddenly.

_"Aparencia Corporus Restorum!"_ rasped a voice.

With these words, the impostor's appearance rapidly changed. On the exposed skin of his face and hands, it seemed as if he were boiling. What appeared to be bubbles erupted all over his flesh and he seemed to be trying to grit his teeth against considerable pain. Within a few seconds, Seamus Finnigan's face and body had replaced Harry's. Still frozen in place by Ron's spell, a muffled whimper escaped his mouth.

Hermione. "Look, it's the real Harry!" With this, everyone stared in the direction she was pointing and found a shocked-looking Harry flanked by Mad-Eye Moody and three younger wizards. In contrast to the old Auror and their friend, the other wizards were looking highly amused.

"Ron, relax mate," said the new Harry. "We were just testing out Seamus as my double. We were following you under our invisibility cloaks to see how it went. He's still got a bit to learn apparently," he said with raised eyebrows.

"How do I know you're the real Harry?" demanded Ron.

"You kiss your Chudley Cannons poster last thing at night before getting into bed, you arse, now put your wand away!" This joke seemed to break the tension as Ron let out a deep breath and lowered his wand. As Moody rushed over to see to Seamus, the eldest of the three wizards approached Ron.

"Hi Ron, I'm Jerry Puddicombe. I'll be working with Moody for the time being."

"I know who you are," exclaimed Ron. For just a moment, with an enthusiastic light in his eyes, he looked like the Ron of old. "You were on the Hufflepuff Dream Team – you invented the Double Punch manoeuvre!"

"Well, er, not really. I just adapted another tactic I'd learned about in Muggle Studies. It's quite interesting really. You see, what I did was..."

"Boring!" cried Ginny from behind her hand as she pretended to cough. Harry noted that despite a few wan smiles, nobody really laughed: it was obviously too soon to be cracking jokes.

Looking chastised, Jerry cleared his throat and continued. "Er, Ron, how did you know it wasn't Harry?"

"Apart from the fact that he had ants in his pants, you mean? Well, he said '_...youse lot..._' which I've only ever heard Irish people say," he explained.

"Okay, thanks," said Jerry, looking impressed.

"Harry, please tell us what's going on!" squeaked Hermione, who never liked to be in the position of not understanding a situation.

"Well, Seamus is going to be imitating me, obviously, and Luna's going to be standing in for Hermione."

"What? Why?"

Harry sighed, shrugged his shoulders and smiled sadly. "That's a long story."

----------

For the first time since the darkest days of Voldemort's last reign of terror, there was little appetite amongst the pupils of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the renowned start-of-term banquet. For the vast majority of the students who had already completed the first year, this was ordinarily a welcome opportunity to witness the legendary Sorting Hat in action without being the focus of its disquieting attentions.

For the few students of the legendary school who were starting as first-years, this time would be even more nerve-wracking than was usually the case. Gone was the festive atmosphere of the welcome ceremony and in its place was a more sombre air. With half of the students now withdrawn, the remainder were all seated at the ends of their respective house tables that were closest to the professors' High Table. The result was that the Great Hall appeared to be almost empty.

The one bright point was that there seemed to be almost as many teaching staff as there were students this year. Everybody had noticed that the place was awash with quite elderly people, the vast majority of whom seemed to laughing and joking. This helped to lighten the load on the younger witches and wizards.

In fact, as Professor McGonagall rose from her chair to call order, the level of noise in the Great Hall had reached almost normal levels. As she looked out over the much diminished student body, she allowed herself a small smile, despite her knowledge of just how dire the situation really was.

"Might have your attention for a few moments please? The sooner we finish, the sooner you can all eat. Anymore noise from the Gryffindor table and they'll start the term with negative points," she added with a very pointed expression. "Now, first of all I would like us all to extend a hearty welcome to our new students and professors!"

Such was the nervous energy in the Great Hall that there was actually a chorus of whistling and cat-calling at this point. Well aware of just how on edge everyone was feeling, the new Headmistress decided not to say anything...this time.

"Yes, yes - calm down please. Now, tomorrow morning when you all receive your timetables, you will notice that all students will have one less class this year." This news was met with near-universal delight. A few people on the Ravenclaw table, as well as Hermione Granger, seemed to be devastated, however.

"This free slot will not be squandered on indolence, though. With the reduced number of students in attendance this year, it is more important than ever that we focus our attentions on the extra-curricular activities of the school. To that end, all students are required to register with their house prefects for a minimum of one club. Furthermore," she stressed over the chorus of groans, "these clubs will all be inter-house with the exception of the Quidditch and wizard chess teams." There were a few dark looks cast at the Slytherin table, but the majority of people seemed to think that it was worth associating with Slytherins if it meant less classes.

"Now, there are a number of new members of the faculty this year, as I am sure you have already noticed. I ask you to join with me in welcoming them. First of all, it is my very great honour to welcome back to Hogwarts as its new Deputy Headmaster and Master of Potions, Professor Hieronymus Massingbird!"

Ron actually smiled when the Hufflepuff table burst into raucous applause. Hero was a Hufflepuff, not a Ravenclaw as he'd thought! Somehow, remembering the stories Hero had told him of his father's only-slightly wayward youth made it easier to think of his death. His eyes filled with tears when he realised that he'd never be able to tease his Dad about these stories.

"If only we'd had just a little more time," he whispered, the tears spilling down his cheeks once again.

Hermione put her arm around his waist and kissed his cheek while Harry slung his arms around Ron's shoulders and Ginny's waist. Their fellow Gryffindors, though thoroughly magical, were also for the most part British. Although they were sitting in plain view of these four, they gave them their privacy by suddenly becoming very interested in the contents of their plates.

As the Headmistress introduced the other new professors, a small kernel of grief nestled in the otherwise hopeful atmosphere.

-----------

At the same time as the start-of-year feast, Remus Lupin and Mad-Eye Moody were hard at work in the 'Fifth Common Room'. Nobody was quite sure who had first jokingly referred to the squat tower by this name. Nevertheless, it had soon been adopted by the steady stream of people who were constantly apparating into and disapparating out of the tower.

The new nerve centre of the Order - one of the many unused towers in Hogwarts - had been chosen by its new leader. Alastor Moody had been all but forced to accept the role by the remaining principal members of Albus Dumbledore's organisation. In theory, he was merely the temporary Chief Counsellor – one of three that formed the Triumvirate that governed the Order. However, both Minerva McGonagall and Remus Lupin had made it clear that this arrangement met with their approval and was to be considered permanent. They had recognised Moody's suitability for this role just as many others had.

In fact, it had been the grizzled old Auror who had managed to persuade so many other retired Aurors to come back to the fold. Apparently, there was a large body of people who were more than a little unhappy with the lack of action on the part of the Ministry of Magic with regards to Voldemort. Not everybody was prepared to accept the empty blandishments of a bunch of overfed bureaucrats. Professor McGonagall had arched an eyebrow at the number of retired Aurors that Moody and Lupin had managed to shoehorn into non-essential posts both in and around Hogwarts. However, proving that she was willing to accept Moody's lead in this matter, she had signed off against the expense.

"Moody," said Remus, "I don't know your mind on this matter, but all those old Aurors stick out like a sore thumb. It will be nigh on impossible to prevent word of their presence here leaking out."

"Good," grunted his companion.

"Moody," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "do you remember what we talked about? I seem to recall that it was about the need to explain your choices more fully in order that we might make our own suggestions?"

"Humph! Voldemort's not stupid, laddie," snapped Moody. "When he and his scum hear that Hogwarts has been filled to the gunwales with trained and experienced Aurors, they're going to throw a collective fit."

Remus seemed to be waiting for Mad-Eye to go on, but the older man gave no sign that he was minded to continue his explanation and continued to pore over fresh intelligence reports. Trying to rein in his growing irritation, he continued to press Moody for more details.

"Yes, I managed to work that one out for myself, Alastor. How is that a good thing for us?"

"Merlin's beard, man! Do I have to spell out everything for you?" Throwing down his quill, he stumped over to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. "The cold seeps into an old man's bones," he complained in a tired voice. Taking out a small hip-flask from his breast pocket, he tipped a generous amount of what smelled like fire whisky into his mug.

"Potter is the key to all of this. We need to destroy the Horcruxes, of course, but what we need most of all is for him to kill Voldemort. If we don't manage to get all the remaining Horcruxes it won't be a complete loss. As long as our Harry does for the Dark Lord, we'll have another few years to prepare for his return." He stopped, sniffed at his drink and then guzzled it down in one go.

"I see what you're saying, Moody," said Remus in his cultured voice, "but how does making Hogwarts into an armed camp help us to achieve this goal?"

"By keeping Voldemort and his Death Eaters fixated on this place, we keep them from seeing other things," he said.

"Such as Harry and Hermione..."

"And the Weasleys, Lupin, don't forget their little part in all of this!" he cautioned.

"...and the Weasleys," Remus acknowledged, "when they are out and about making mischief," he finished. "There's more to it than that, though, surely?" he asked, looking straight into the old man's eyes.

"Yes there is – there is always more. Learn to think like an Auror and you'll realise that. Never accept the most obvious explanation; there are always layers upon layers. Always! Look here Lupin, what is the fundamental difference between a Death Eater and the retired Aurors?"

"There are so many that I couldn't possibly start to list them."

"No? Well, let me help you a little, shall I? We'll start off with our side - Aurors with proven track records who are old, bored and basically decent. First of all, the fact that they are old means that they don't fear death as much as you youngsters. Now, I'm not saying that they're looking for martyrdom," he added hastily, to forestall Lupin's growing expression of incredulity, "I'm just saying that they are aware of the fact that they have relatively few years left to them. They have had their time in the sun, their careers and their families - at least those who wanted families have. There is little left to hold them back, whereas any reasonable youngster fears losing his or her opportunity to have such things.

"Secondly, the boredom of being a retired and un-regarded old buffoon also works in our favour. Where else would they be able to find work at their age - in the Ministry? No, we offer the chance for a bit of excitement and the feeling that they might just be doing a bit of good.

"And finally, add to this the fact that they are all veterans of battle - all but the oldest of them have experience of the Dark Lord's last little tantrum, remember - and we have ourselves a nice little force that should prove to be more reliable than any other we could reasonably expect to lay our hands on."

"And what of the Death Eaters, Moody; they are hardly weak-willed little school children, are they?" asked Remus, arching his eyebrow. "They are capable adults, trained in the use of the Dark Arts, who have absolutely no compunctions about using any type of magic against whichever target takes their master's fancy. They form a dangerous force which is not to be trifled with," he finished emphatically.

"True enough, Remus, that's a fair point. Tell me," he said, pausing to add more fire whisky to his mug, "exactly how wieldy do you think the Death Eaters are as a force? No, no, don't answer that, it was a rhetorical question. When it comes to guerrilla tactics, the Dark Lord's troops are an excellent force, I admit. However, when it comes to a set confrontation between two armies - open conflict, Remus - then we have a clear advantage.

"Which Death Eater will accept the order to be the first to attack Hogwarts when the likes of Malfoy, McNair or Lestrange are sitting behind them, safe as houses, and waiting to gobble up all of the wealth and property belonging to the dead? They're not stupid; they know that the first into contact with our forces will die for sure. The Muggles discovered in the wars of the past hundred years that if you have an unwilling army, it is almost impossible to control it. In fact, you spend more time disciplining your own army than you do attacking the enemy.

"Remus, we want to be attacked! We have to force them to do so. This will gain us some more time to prepare ourselves and to let our forces damage Voldemort and foment discord amongst his troops!"

"Cue the Weasleys," said Remus with a tired smile.

"Aye, cue the bloody Weasleys. Let's see if they can set the cat amongst the pigeons," he growled.

----------


	8. The Calm before the Storm

**Chapter 8 – The Calm before the Storm**

A chill wind was whistling through the eaves of the Gryffindor tower as Ron dragged himself from a sleepless bed. It was long before the weak autumn sun would show itself, though its arrival would do little to warm any of the inhabitants of the school.

Despite the splendour of the castle and its grounds, it was not a place designed for the colder months. Wide passageways which, in the spring at least, made pleasant and airy routes between classes were now to be traversed with all speed. The cold fingers of the cutting wind found their way through every layer of clothing to caress the unprepared skin of staff and students alike. The open spaces of the lawns and quadrangles were left untouched as the students who passed hugged the walls of the buildings, jealous of the meagre protection they offered.

Besides the cosy studies of the teaching staff, only the dormitories and common rooms offered the students any real opportunity to warm themselves. The whole castle seemed to be shrunk in on itself, huddling against the assault of the elements. Indeed, such was the severity of this particular winter in the north of Britain that Argus Filch and Mrs. Norris finally admitted that even the most determined rule-breakers among the students would not brave the passages after curfew, and withdrew to their own crackling fireside.

Standing next to the stove in the centre of the dormitory, gazing at its glowing embers, Ron was surprised that the shrieking wind had failed to wake any of his friends. As it reached its crescendo, it sounded like a small child in fear of its life. Eventually, the growing numbness of his feet and ankles, a gift from the icy flagstones, drove him from the dormitory. Crossing the narrow passage, he entered the snug, small bathroom that served him and his friends.

There was a single candle burning in a lamp above the window. Preferring the intimate darkness, Ron didn't light any more of the lamps. Instead, he undressed and grabbed one of the clean towels from the pile and headed to the shower stall on the left. Due to the idiosyncratic architectural style of the castle, this bathroom had a noticeably sloping floor which gave the showers on the left more height than the others. As both Ron and Neville had seemingly been engaged in a competition to see who could grow the most, they had inevitably gravitated to the left.

He looked around, desperately trying to fix every last detail in his mind. When it was his time to die, Ron was determined that he would have a spare moment to dwell on the happiness he had enjoyed here at Hogwarts. Ducking into the shower, he slung his towel over the door and adjusted the taps for a hot shower. As was common for people throughout the world, Ron found the flow of hot water over his head and body immensely relaxing and almost unconsciously began running over the events of the past few days in his mind.

----------

They had been a strange few days at that. Ron had never in his wildest dreams imagined that he would patiently be teaching Seamus Finnigan, a Gryffindor with an Irish accent so thick you could use it whack a Bludger, the finer points of speaking with a English accent. And not only was it an English accent, according to Seamus, but it was also...

"_Posh_?" shouted Harry. "What do you mean, '_posh_'?" He glared at Seamus as Neville and Dean had fought a valiant battle to keep themselves from bursting out laughing. Even Ron found it in him to recognise his friend's look of indignant shock as amusing. Harry was sitting on his old bed in the seventh-year dormitory, with a look of utter bewilderment on his face and his hand halfway between a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans and his mouth.

"Er, yeah mate," said Seamus, looking puzzled. "I'm havin' real difficulty gettin' yer accent down on account of...it...bein'...posh," he finished weakly in the face of Harry's anger.

"I do not have a _'posh'_ accent," Harry all but shouted, biting each word off as if to cause it pain.

At this point, perhaps rather unwisely, Dean had been unable to contain himself any longer and had burst out laughing. Hot on his heels was Neville.

"I bloody well do not have a posh accent!" shouted Harry. "Tell them, Ron!"

"Er," said Ron, looking down at his hands.

"What? Not you too!" said Harry, dropping his box of sweets. "Does everybody think so?"

"Yeah, just about everyone," gasped Dean in between gales of laughter.

The Boy-Who-Lived now looked a little like the Boy-Who-Was-Pissed-Off. He obviously had had no idea that people thought this of him. As Dean and Neville calmed down and Ron went back to patiently tutoring Seamus, Harry looked extremely put out. Eventually, after about twenty minutes of sulking, he had spoken again.

"As posh as Justin Finch-Fletchley from Hufflepuff, or less?"

Neville and Dean had collapsed in fresh gales of laughter, delighted at seeing this new and unexpected side to their old friend. As the taunts had continued to fly thick and fast, the freezing rain had pelted against the window. It had been a good day.

----------

Shocked from his reverie by the sharp sting of soap in his eyes, Ron ducked back under the shower to rinse himself off. He spluttered as the hot water pounded against his head and shoulders, but held himself there nonetheless.

As he did so, other less welcome memories came to him.

----------

"Merlin - it's as cold as a Hag's tit out here!" exclaimed Charlie Weasley, blowing into his hands in a vain attempt to keep them warm.

"And here's me thinking all this time that you were a rough outdoors type, camping out in arse-end of mountains and wrestling dragons single-handedly," joked Bill.

His brother just grunted by way of reply and kept rubbing his hands. Moving up to Charlie's side, Bill put his arm and half of his heavy cloak around his brother's shoulders. For anyone who knew the two, this would have been surprising. As was often the case, the closer the siblings in age, the more intense the rivalry between them. However, they did love each other and recent events had at least served to damp down their good-natured rivalry. That they could comfortably share such physical intimacy bode well for the Weasleys and ill for their enemies.

"Thanks. Where's Fleur?"

"She's with Mum at the Burrow."

"How is she holding up?"

"She's alright, I suppose," answered Bill with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Is Ivonne there too?"

"Not now, she will be later though."

They were both on top of the main gate house leading into Hogwarts. It was the day after the start-of-term banquet and Moody had told all the Weasley boys to be waiting for three wizards who would be apparating as close to Hogwarts as the wards would allow, and then walking the rest of the way. While the two eldest brothers kept watch for the newcomers from the roof, the Twins and Ron were huddling next to a small brazier in a tiny makeshift shelter at the foot of the building.

"What's wrong with this picture?" asked Fred, his teeth chattering with the cold.

"Is it us freezing to death?" said George, looking distinctly blue-lipped himself.

"No, try again."

"Is it the fact that Moody is currently curled up in warm bed, with a bottle of fire whisky and the latest copy of '_Conspiracy Weekly_' for company?"

"Wrong again, brother mine," said Fred, risking a trip to Madam Pomfrey by putting his hands even closer to the red-hot brazier.

Already tiring of what would soon be one of his brothers' famous comedy dialogues, Ron had blurted out, "Well, what is it then?"

Trading a quick look that Ron didn't see, the Twins seemed to sense the fact that Ron wasn't in the mood for any of their games this morning. Shrugging at George, Fred had said,

"It's the fact, little brother, that Witches and Wizards always seem to travel at dawn. Why is that? What's so wrong with travelling at midday or mid-afternoon?"

"Too right," added George, never keen to let his brother hog centre-stage for too long. "Look at Muggles, for example. Do you ever see them travelling to work at dawn? Of course you don't; they're tucked up in their beds, which is where we should be if you ask me. I mean, seriously, if we were meant to..."

"Someone's out there!" whispered Ron urgently.

Charlie had agreed to drop a Sickle from the roof when they spotted anybody. Its metallic ring should have been just loud enough to alert those below he said, but in the pre-dawn gloom it had sounded like a gong being hit. Suddenly all business, Fred, George and Ron had their wands in their hands and had moved away from the brazier so that they weren't silhouetted against its light They were expecting friends, but there was no sense in taking chances.

Straining their eyes in the iron-grey light, they could just make out movement. At least two figures were moving quite openly, walking slowly along the footpath which led from a sizeable copse of trees about two miles diagonally to the left of the gate house. Finally, the three younger Weasleys could make out that three figures were in fact approaching. As they knew that Bill and Charlie were remaining hidden above them in case of trouble, they returned to the side of the brazier and its much welcomed heat.

Seeing the three redheads enter the light, the tallest of the newcomers pointed to them and the trio of cloaked figures started to make their way towards the brothers. The first two pulled their hoods back to reveal hard-faced Aurors.

"Winifred Drinkwater," stated one brusquely.

"Bubastis Bitterman, Ministry of Magic," added the other.

Fred raised his eyebrows as he shot a glance at George. These two had obviously been produced from the same factory: serious and cheerless, they were undoubtedly Scrimgeour's people and therefore not to be trusted overly.

"I'm Fred Weasley," he said stepping forward to shake hands. "These are my brothers George and Ron."

"We were told there would be five of you," said the woman, tutting. "Where are the others?"

"Right behind you!" came the firm reply, as Bill and Charlie stepped into view with their wands raised. They had obviously worked their way around behind the newcomers.

"Not bad, I didn't hear you sneaking up on us," acknowledged her companion somewhat grudgingly.

"It's not our first time," quipped Charlie, determined to show the Aurors that they weren't dealing with amateurs. "Now," he continued, "before we go on, why doesn't your friend here lower his hood? There's no need for secrets between allies, is there?"

The man and women looked at each other, shrugged and then nodded to the tall, thin figure standing apart from the crowd. He or she clearly hesitated before reaching up to pull the hood down and thereby reveal their identity. It soon became clear why.

It was Percy Weasley.

----------

Feeling his heart thump in his chest and his breathing quicken, Ron balled his hands into fists and thumped them into the tiles of the wall.

He clenched his jaw against a rising tide of panic, desperately trying not to carry on with this memory.

----------

Later that same morning, after Madam Pomfrey had attended to Percy's broken nose and black eyes, Moody called a meeting in the Room of Requirement. Besides him and the Weasleys, only Remus and the two Ministry Aurors, Winifred Drinkwater and Bubastis Bitterman were present.

"Now, if we're all prepared to concentrate on business instead of personal affairs," harrumphed Moody, while looking fixedly at Ron, "we'll see if we can't put the remainder of the day to some productive use. Right, the broad idea is to raid a Death Eater cell, raze the place to the ground and to take a couple of prisoners for interrogation." Looking at Ron and the rest of the Weasleys he continued, "I said alive, d'you hear me? I've no need at this time for angry little children who can't follow orders!" he barked.

Ron hung his head, not particularly sorry for what he'd done to Percy, but willing to appear ashamed of his actions if it stopped Moody from pulling him out of the mission.

"Remus, would you be so kind as to update Minerva as to the status of our little jaunt today?"

"Of course, Alastor," Lupin agreed, and left the room.

"Check it, Winifred," Moody ordered as soon as the door had closed.

"What's going on?" demanded Ron, angry to see Mad-Eye and the Ministry woman checking up on Remus.

"Quiet Ron, this isn't what it seems," said Charlie.

When Winifred signalled that the coast was clear, Bill and Charlie crossed the room to sit at Moody's side. The two Aurors prowled the edges of the room, muttering spells and searching every corner. Suddenly, Ron and the Twins felt quite isolated.

"What's going on?" demanded George.

"Yeah, what can't you say in front of Lupin?" added Fred.

"Relax, youngsters," growled Mad-Eye. "I trust Lupin implicitly and I can't say that for more than a handful of people in the world, I can tell you! The reason we're excluding him from this little chat is that he is a good man. I don't mean to say that he is weak, quite the opposite! His track record fighting the Dark Lord is impeccable and I wish we had more like him. It's just that he wouldn't approve of the choice I am going to give you all.

"We are going to attack a Death Eater cell, snatch a brace of prisoners and burn everything else to the ground - that much is true. What we are not going to do is let anyone of them escape!"

"You mean we're going to kill them all, don't you?" said Ron, leaning forward in his chair and rubbing the back of his neck.

"That all depends on you, Ron", said Moody. "Kill if it will make you feel any better about Arthur, but I would prefer you to maim."

Fred and George had been watching events unfold with growing puzzlement. If anyone doubted how much things had changed, when they saw Fred raise his hand as if he were in class, those doubts were finally laid to rest.

"Er, excuse me? What exactly do you mean, Moody?"

"There is a Muggle religion called Shaolin, Fred. It is a noble religion which preaches peace and tolerance between all mankind. What's more, it has a central tenet regarding life: _all life is sacred_. Devout Shaolin monks don't even boil water, fearful that they will kill any microscopic life forms living in it.

"However, in the real world, this is impossible. Where would we be if we couldn't walk for fear of crushing an ant on the way to work or our homes? Therefore, there is a maxim by which these Shaolin monks live their lives: '_Run rather than fight, wound rather than maim, maim rather than kill_'.

"Turn those wise words around and you'll have my wishes for this mission. I know that you all think that you want to kill those responsible for killing your father, but do you really? By now you all should know that Voldemort used murders to fracture his soul and create Horcruxes. Do you want to fracture your souls? Killing in self-defence or in battle is a different kettle of fish entirely: murder is murder," he stated ominously, leaning back in his chair.

"Moody isn't talking about torturing people," added Charlie. "It's more like breaking legs, ribs and the like."

"We have to aim to put the fear of Merlin into the Death Eaters - make them understand that they can be hurt as well as their victims," said Bill. "If we can't at least slow them down a little, we've already lost."

"Winifred and Bubastis are on our side, not Scrimgeour's," stated Moody. "They'll take care of bagging the prisoners. All you boys have to do is cause a lot of pain and damage. This is a test run for a much wider plan - if it goes well, I'll be activating many such operations. It should buy us some much needed time. Are you up to it?"

Fred and George looked pale as they nodded their heads. Ron's jaw was set as he looked forward to tonight.

----------

Pulling back out of the stream of water, he took in deep breaths of the steamy air, feeling it loosen his tight chest. He needed to relax and to focus his mind on what lay ahead. He needed to be wide awake and alert today of all days.

Focus on a better memory; that's what you need to do, he thought to himself.

----------

Hermione and Ron had sat up into the small hours in the Gryffindor common room on the previous night. The wind had yet to realise its full strength, but the rain was already falling steadily. Sitting on a battered old sofa facing the fire, Ron had flopped down at one end and Hermione had laid herself out along its length, with her feet on Ron's lap.

For the first hour they had merely bathed in each other's presence, exchanging barely a dozen words. They had eaten and were comfortable, they weren't thirsty and were content to while away the time staring into the flickering light of the fire place. Hermione knew that Ron would be away on business for the Order first thing the next morning. She could also make a shrewd guess that it would be dangerous just by keeping an eye on Percy. Talk about a cat on a hot tin roof! She wasn't silly enough to endanger everybody by asking Ron what he would be doing or where, but given that the Weasley boys had recently lost their father she could guess it wouldn't have anything to do with stealth.

She had been curious as to why both she and Harry were to have doppelgangers covering for them in Hogwarts whereas Ron would not. Well, now she had her answer and she didn't like it. Both she and Harry would more likely than not be landed with make-work - a task designed to keep them out of harm's way whilst others saw to the real missions. Had she not suspected that her role would be to guard Harry, she would not have been at all happy. Hermione, however, could always see the big picture and knew that she would have to look after him. He was, after all, perfectly capable of ... rash actions on occasion.

Ron, meanwhile, was thinking about Hermione. Unlike her, he knew that she would be receiving a mission briefing tomorrow and that it would not be a piece of cake. Judging by the amount of time, effort and worry that Moody, Lupin and McGonagall had all spent on its planning, it was considerably more important than his 'little jaunt', as Mad-Eye insisted on calling it. He had resolved to have a heart-to-heart talk with Hermione, but was just too relaxed at the moment to start.

Casting his mind back, Ron could actually remember the very first piece of advice that his father had given him. He had been about five or six years old and had broken a beautiful crystal decanter that his mother had received from her mother, Nana Platt, on her wedding day. It had been a family heirloom going back about five generations or so and she had been livid. He smiled a little as he remembered clutching his stinging bottom and hiding behind his father's legs as he had tried to escape her punishment.

Later, when his mother had been downstairs cooling off, his father had sneaked into his room with a single sugar quill. This was when Ron had finally broken down and started crying his little heart out.

"I'm sorry," he had blubbed.

"I know you are Ron," said is father, "but you must understand that what you did today was wrong. You must never touch people's possessions without their express permission!"

With this, he had given Ron an extra-long hug and then left the bedroom. It was this soft-voiced admonishment from the most gentle of men which had had an impact on him more lasting than any other punishment. He really had been a special man and an extraordinary father, Ron thought to himself.

"Penny for your thoughts?" said Hermione, echoing Ginny in the garden of the Burrow.

"Hmm?" grunted Ron, startled from his memories.

"I said, 'Penny for your thoughts?'" she repeated.

"I was thinking about Dad...and you," he said with a smile.

Hermione pounced on him and hugged him with a frightening intensity. He pressed his nose into her hair, inhaling her scent. He was determined to remember it.

"Give me something of yours," he whispered urgently.

"I, I don't have anything. I don't like jewellery, Ron."

"Your earrings, then - please Hermione, I'm not being silly!

She reached up and took her earrings out of her lobes. With tears welling up in her eyes, she had pressed them into his hand at the same time as pressing her lips against his. She lay on top of him, noting how slim he actually was. It was strange how the mind noticed these tiny details at the most inopportune of times.

"Thanks," he gasped, pocketing them. "I'll take them with me tomorrow."

"Ron, you will be careful, won't you? Your Dad wouldn't want to see you too soon, you know?"

"You believe in that, do you? You believe in the afterlife?" he asked.

"Yes, I do," she answered simply. She was blushing slightly and raising her chin as if to dare him to make anything of her faith. She had always felt slightly embarrassed when it came to her irrational belief.

"So do I," he said. "Until Dad died, I'd never thought about it. My grandparents all passed away when I was quite young, and that seemed normal. When Sirius, you know, I was thinking more about Harry than I was about him.

"Now Bill's been married off, I suppose I'll be an uncle sooner rather than later. Hermione, up until now it seems as if I've always been living in the present - the here and now. There was never going to be a future, death - my death. Now I see that it is as normal as it is inevitable." He paused, looked at her and grinned. "I'm not the same person I was a few weeks ago. I understand that I am, or have been, a kid up until this point.

"Now I have to join the team and it's not the team that I want. I'll miss you and Harry, you know? When we're together, it seems as if nothing will ever happen to us. Do take care of yourself, Hermione; I love you and couldn't go on without you."

"Silly," she said, lowering herself on top of him.

They lay there awhile, speaking of inconsequential things until they both started falling asleep. Hermione then pulled Ron to his feet, looked deeply into his eyes and said,

"When you come back we'll be together."

He nodded his understanding and with this, she kissed him deeply, turned on her heel and left.

----------

Towelling his hair dry roughly, Ron padded over the row of sinks to shave. Stretching his arms up to their very limit and standing on the tips of his toes as the hot water filled the basin, he began to feel human again.

He quickly set out his shaving kit at the side and began to lather up. He was forced to use Dean's Muggle shaving soap as he'd left his wand in the dormitory. Smiling sadly as he remembered that day in the garden of the Burrow when Hermione had first kissed him, he recalled her exact words.

"_Mmm, you smell nice. Have you just shaved?_"

It was the shortest of phrases; they were the simplest of words, but his heart had leapt when he heard them. He would treasure that memory - come what may - for the rest of his life.

Taking the hand towel from around his neck, he wiped the mirror free of steam. He stared at his reflection for a minute, still unaccustomed to seeing himself with short hair. Moody had personally cut it off in preparation for today, insisting that long hair was a danger in many situations.

Finishing his shave, he looked at the pile of clothing that Moody had provided him. Apart from his underwear, there was a tough hemisphere to be worn over his groin. If it had been alone, it might have been funny. Unfortunately, there were also shin and knee guards, braces for his forearms and a semi-rigid chest protector.

As if this wasn't enough to drive home the danger of the situation, there were three spare wands; one in a quick-draw sheath at his waist, one in a closed leather pouch at his belt and an identical one for his boot. Nobody would be able to render him harmless with an _Expelliarmus_ spell.

Running his hand through his short hair one last time, he squared his shoulders and left the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him.

----------


	9. Red Fury

**Chapter 9 - Red Fury**

"Come on," exclaimed Harry breathlessly, "I'll race you!"

"Prefects, Harry, do not take part in such undignified and, might I add, forbidden activities," Hermione replied grumpily. She was worried about Ron and had been short with everyone since before breakfast. It was in the face of such uncharacteristic behaviour from his friend that Harry had decided to take matters into his own hands and take her mind off her boyfriend.

"Yeah, right," he said sarcastically, "but if a student were to race blindly down the corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, imperilling the lives and limbs of students and teachers alike, how would these paragons of prefect virtue actually catch the villain?"

"Well, obviously we'd have to chase..."

At this, Harry took to his heels.

"Harry, no!" shrieked Hermione, rushing after him.

Students quite literally threw themselves out of the way as Harry and Hermione tore through the corridors. Despite their very real fears for the Weasleys' safety, their spirits soared as, for just a short time, they lost themselves in the moment. Coupled with the fact that they were finally going to do something constructive, and were on their way to receive their briefing from McGonagall and Massingbird, they didn't care about the possible consequences of their actions.

For Hermione at least, her pointless pursuit of Harry was an outlet for all the nervous energy she was feeling. Vaulting over Mrs. Norris, she nearly let out a whoop as she found herself gaining on him.

----------

At the same time as his two friends were laughing and crying after having run hell for leather around the grounds of Hogwarts, Ron too had tears in his eyes. Also like Harry and Hermione, Ron was running. The difference being he was running for his life and the lives of his brothers.

His eyes were stinging as the frigid air of the dense pine forest whipped past him. It almost looked as if his tears were blood due to the number of cuts his face he had received. Over the course of the last half-hour he had been given cause to praise Moody's protective gear as he had barrelled into branches, rocks hidden under snow drifts and, on the most memorable occasion, a shocked-looking deer. It was a pity Mad-Eye hadn't included anything to protect his face - a pity, but irrelevant.

He was now engaged in a one-on-one race against a fleet-footed Death Eater...and he was losing.

----------

It had all started with an unpleasant truth.

When they arrived to the arid pine forest Ron had discovered that in order to bring home the fact that teamwork was of the essence, Moody had paired him with an oddly mild-mannered Percy. He had managed to conceal his irritation upon hearing the news, not willing to show Drinkwater and Bitterman that they had managed to get to him. Bill was, of course, paired with Charlie as the Twins wouldn't hear of being separated.

Bubastis Bitterman, a slender man somewhere in his forties, was in command of the mission and Winifred Drinkwater seemed content to follow his lead. Charlie was under the impression that this was his first time in charge as he seemed to be deliberately paying her no attention whatsoever, as if he were having her performance evaluated by a boss. He had seen it a few times before when new team leaders had been rotated through his base camp in Romania for in-the-field experience.

"Ladies, if I can have your attention?" he shouted.

Bill and Charlie both raised there eyebrows at this and made eye contact with Drinkwater, letting her know that they were above this sort of aggressive sports-coach handling. By way of reply she simply inclined her head towards the four younger Weasleys, who had suddenly fallen silent and were more or less standing to attention. The two brothers looked back at the Auror and grinned, as if to concede the point.

"Thank you so very much," he almost shouted. "Now, so far you've only been told the basics. As you know, this is to maintain security. However, now that we've arrived I am at liberty to divulge more details of our mission.

"As you have probably already surmised from the weather, we are still in the northern hemisphere. To be more precise we are slap bang in the centre of the Iberian Peninsula."

"Huh?" muttered Ron.

"The Iberian Peninsula," said Bitterman, raising his voice and staring daggers at Ron, "is as we are all doubtless aware the landmass containing Spain and Portugal. The enemy has been building up men and caches of materiel all over Northern and Western Europe. If all goes as planned today, we will be engaging these Death Eater cells aggressively throughout continental Europe.

"Now, we are going to divide into pairs, each of which will have a rigidly defined area to patrol. You will stick to these areas without exception," he said whilst looking pointedly at the Twins, "as we don't need the added complication of hexing our own side.

"You will each carry one of these at all times," he ordered. He was holding a thick piece of black glass which he took care to show to each of the Weasleys. "It is a simple device which will grow brighter on a single side as you approach the limit of one of the borders of your designated patrol territory.

"I'm sure you all heard Alastor Moody stating that Auror Drinkwater and I would be responsible for taking enemy personnel prisoner. Let me stress to each and every one of you that under no circumstances are you to engage the enemy. You cannot fight Dark Magic with schoolboy hexes. Auror training is designed specifically to allow us to fight those such as Death Eaters effectively without having to resort to illegal curses. Even the lowliest of the Dark Lord's followers would have a marked advantage over any of you."

Bitterman took another deep breath as if he intended to continue his briefing. Drinkwater, however, had noted the growing fidgeting among the ranks and had evidently decided that enough was enough.

"Thank you, Bubastis, for that thorough briefing. Now, I want you all to bear in mind my colleague's last comment. On paper, anybody who uses Dark Magic has an advantage over those who chose not to do so. In real life, however, there are a number of things that we can do to level the playing field. For example, make sure you strike first. I know that this sounds like an obvious piece of advice, but you all might be surprised at just how many people are loath to start a fight. This shows good sense, ordinarily, as when a fight starts there is no guarantee that you'll find yourself on the prevailing side. Normal people will try to talk their way out of a fight whereas Death Eaters simply fight.

"Even a simple spell such as 'Jelly Legs' will render an opponent helpless for a few seconds before they, or a friend of theirs, will be able to administer the counter hex. Imagine if you will what you could do to the Death Eater who is responsible for your father's murder if you had ten seconds in which to cast any curse that took your fancy."

She let this thought sink in before she continued. "Also you might like to consider the speed with which you are able to cast your chosen spells. '_Stupefy_' is but a single word. Everybody standing in front of me should be able to cast it twenty times a minute and that is quite a daunting sight, be you Death Eater or not. A more complicated choice such as '_Avada Kedavra_' will take longer to cast and allow your opponent to get a..._word_... in edgeways. "

The Weasleys laughed dutifully at her joke.

"What I'm trying to drive home to you is the fact that you should keep it simple. Give somebody a Scrying stone, a Remembrall, potion-bombs and a Pensieve and he or she will have their brains bashed out when an enemy with a stone sneaks up behind them when they're trying to operate it all.

"The motto of the Auror is '_Think quickly, Act simply, Strike first_'. Please don't forget that or your brothers will die."

The Weasleys, seemingly much sobered by Drinkwater's words, collected their patrol maps and moved out.

----------

Their warm breath steaming in the frigid air, Percy and Ron moved silently through the forest. Through the tree tops they could see the snow-capped peaks of a chain of mountains so close to them that they have been halfway up. The air was very clear and surprisingly dry given the low temperature. On any other day, this might have been a very pleasant walk.

They hadn't exchanged a word since Percy had, to Ron's obvious surprise, offered him the black glass which served as a simple map. By way of reply, Ron had grunted and shaken his head, failing to meet his eye. To tell the truth he was more than a little ashamed of having attacked his brother, but didn't know how to say sorry. The fact that Percy was acting as if nothing had happened simply made him feel worse and made him wonder if that was indeed Percy's plan.

After about two hours, they took a welcome break. Both were quite tired from walking up and down the uneven terrain, and despite their warm clothing they were chilled to the bone. They had covered about half of the terrain assigned to them and were a little ahead of schedule. Percy surprised Ron yet again by pulling out a small flask of hot, sweet tea from a pocket. Obviously, they weren't allowed to use magic for fear of alerting the enemy to their presence and Ron had resigned himself to an uncomfortable few hours.

"There's only enough for a cup each I'm afraid," said Percy in a low voice. He shrugged when Ron failed to answer him, but was in turn surprised a moment later when his younger brother addressed him directly for the first time in many months.

"I bet Fred would sell George for the chance of a tiny cup of tea right about now."

Percy looked up in surprise, but Ron was still not making eye contact. No matter, it was a beginning.

"Not before George had tried the same. If you and I didn't exist, they would have killed each other years ago," he answered. "We should charge them for all the times they've played pranks on us. If we hadn't been around Merlin knows what they would have done to each other."

Ron snorted at this thought and then silence fell between the two brothers, but with a different quality than before. This was more of a comfortable silence, the type that two brothers might enjoy sharing as opposed to feel embarrassed by. After just a couple of minutes Percy took a deep breath and looked as though he was steeling himself for some unpleasant duty.

"Ron, there's something I need to say. I need to say it _to_ you and _about_ you. Will you listen for a while?"

"Yeah," muttered Ron, looking down at his hands in a shamefaced way.

"When Dad was killed, I lost it. I was at the office, dressed in my best clothes and in two minds about whether or not to attend the reception. Finally, I decided to show my face. After all it would have been churlish on my part not to wish Fleur and Bill well for the future. Bill and I have had our differences of opinion, but that doesn't mean we can't be civil towards each other.

"I knew I would arrive late, of course, which would ordinarily be unforgivable. But this time I was avoiding someone...some people who would have made a scene. Not Mum and Dad who, due to their maturity, would have put a civil enough gloss on the whole proceedings; they wouldn't dream of doing anything on Bill and Fleur's day. Nor was I avoiding Charlie who would have simply ignored me for the evening - he isn't my number one fan but then again he doesn't want to break my nose whenever he sees me."

"It was me and Fred and George," Ron stated flatly.

"Yes, Ron, it was. Look, I was completely wrong about You-Know-Who, Dumbledore and Harry. I'll be honest and say that I wanted them to be wrong, to be ridiculed for what they were saying. Why did I want that? Well, I'll tell you - I was very angry, that's why. I was angry with anyone connected with Harry and with the Weasleys in particular.

"For as long as I can remember you and the Twins have been making my life miserable. Oh, Charlie and Bill would tease me, but they would never go past a certain limit. I was never one of the '_Big Ones_', as Mum and Dad called Bill and Charlie. Likewise, I wasn't included in the '_Little Ones_', you, Fred and George and Ginny - I was simply Percy. I didn't like that, Ron, not one bit. I know it was because I'm different, that I see things in a different way. You probably don't remember Nana Platt, but Mum says I'm like her and..."

"I remember that she was fussy, that she was always bothered by what people thought of her and her precious pure-blood family," interrupted Ron. "She was always worrying about something and was never too bad apart from the fact that she wasn't much fun to be around." He rubbed his hands over his short hair, still unused to the way it felt. "But she always picked us up when we fell down," he continued, "and played Exploding Snap with us when it rained. I liked her, I suppose, but we were a bit too young to appreciate her and what she did for us."

"Yes, that's how I remember her too." Like Ron, he too looked down at his hands and seemed to be lost in thought. Suddenly, with tears in his eyes, he burst out, "I may not act like a Weasley, Ron, but I am one! I love Mum, Dad, Bill, Charlie, Fred, George Ginny and you - but you don't love me back! You don't! Why not? Why, what's wrong with me?" Having said this, he broke down and great sobs wracked his slender frame.

"Percy, don't cry! I'm really sorry! Look, since Dad died I've been doing a lot of thinking. Things are changing a lot, not just with You-Know-Who, but with me and everyone around me. I'm sorry if we were horrible to you when we were young - it wasn't anything personal!"

"Not personal!" Percy screamed, "You made my life a misery!"

"I know and I think I'm beginning to understand what that means now. But when I say it wasn't personal I mean it. You were Head Boy at Hogwarts, weren't you? Did you never notice how scummy young kids are? As I've got older I've begun to see how evil the little munchkins can be! Hell, they don't do their homework and then lie about it, they attack each other for no good reason at all and they seem to spend more of their time doing idiotic, useless things than anything else. Percy, it's just recently that I've begun to appreciate the company of my friends as the greatest pleasure of all. Hanging around with Harry brings home to you exactly how short life is; Professor Quirrell, Bartemius and Barty Crouch, Cedric Diggory, Dumbledore, Dad! Now all I want to do is live my life with my friends and family and I suppose that's all that anyone wants. I'm sorry we treated you like shit." With this he fell silent, waiting Percy's next words.

"Yes, you did and I hate you for it! Why couldn't you just let me be me?"

"Because, at least in part, if I was attacking you then they wouldn't be attacking me. It was pretty Slytherin, wasn't it?"

Percy merely nodded and tried to bring his breathing under control. Again, silence fell between them as they sat side by side. After a while, Ron risked speaking again.

"Will you forgive me? I'd like to have you as a friend, as someone to talk to when I'm feeling down in the dumps. When Dad died I realised that family is precious. I'd like you to be my big brother again, Percy."

"I'd like that too, Ron, but it has to come naturally. I can't just forget everything, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

"But we'll work on it, okay?"

"Sure, whatever you say Percy."

"Now I just have to tackle the Twins," Percy joked feebly while wiping his eyes.

"Good Luck!" said Ron.

"Thanks."

"I'll go with you when you speak to them - evens the odds a little."

"Thank you."

Percy picked up his forgotten tea and rolled the small metal cup between the palms of his hands. Ron went back to fingering is hair - bloody Moody! Then he had an idea, a way in which he might build on the tentative trust that had just been established.

"Percy?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm seeing someone...at Hogwarts, I mean."

"What's his name?"

"What? No, it's a girl - I'm not..." he stopped cold, realising Percy had actually cracked a joke. "Ha! Ha! Very funny - been saving that one since last Christmas, have you?" Secretly he was pleased that Percy had done so.

"Who is it?" asked Percy, turning to look Ron in the eye.

"Hermione," said Ron, feeling the blush creep up his face.

"That's good, Ron, that's very good," Percy said with a smile. "She's a fine girl and anyone would be happy to have her. You'll go a long way with her as your girlfriend."

"That's what I'm afraid of!" he half-joked.

Again silence fell between the two brothers. After sipping at their tea for a couple of minutes, they both realised that they would soon have to be on their way again. They were clearly reluctant to move on, but finally Percy spoke again.

"Here's to Platitude Prewett - let's hope she isn't boring the pants off Dad!" he said heartily, clicking his cup of stone-cold tea into Ron's

"Cheers, Perce," said Ron, finally meeting his brother's eye.

To Percy, this use of his nickname was sweeter than any cup of tea ever could be.

----------

When they resumed their patrol route again, Ron realised just how unnatural it had been to avoid Percy's eye all the time. Now that they had talked, it seemed to be easier to just look around and act naturally as he wasn't determined to avoid his brother's accusatory gaze. It was probably this newfound freedom that saved them when, as he looked over at Percy again, an unnatural movement caught his eye.

His mind working furiously, Ron looked down at the small encampment below them and thanked Merlin for small mercies. Had they not had their little heart-to-heart a few minutes ago, they would undoubtedly have run straight into the platoon of Death Eaters who were setting up camp at the top of the valley into which they had been on the verge of entering.

Looking over at Percy he mouthed the word 'nine', to which he received a nod by way of confirmation. Nine Death Eaters! They had either won the Wizard Lottery or they had lost it, depending on your point of view. Nine!

Nodding his head to indicate that they should retreat behind the brow of the hill, Percy very slowly lowered himself to the ground. Following suit, Ron crawled after his brother as slowly and quietly as his jangling nerves would allow him.

"Bollocks!" whispered Percy.

"Arse!" whispered Ron by way of reply.

"I've just realised something," murmured Percy, his mouth next to his brother's ear. "We haven't any way of contacting the others." Jerking his head around to look Percy straight in the eye, Ron realised that they didn't need to say anything to each other. They were both of the same opinion and that was to run away...now!

They began to crawl away, taking care not to break any twigs or make any noise unless otherwise unavoidable. They hadn't moved ten metres before they heard the unmistakeable rustle of someone approaching. It had to be one of the Death Eaters approaching from the camp and by the sound of it he or she wasn't expecting to find anyone at the top of the hill.

"Yes Senior Death Eater, no Senior Death Eater, three bags full Senior Death Eater!" chanted an angry male voice. "Fetch your own damned wood for the camp fire, Senior Death Eater," it continued.

Looking out over the flattened top of the hill, Ron and Percy realised that they wouldn't be able to hide themselves before the Death Eater saw them. Drawing their wands, they turned back to the lip of the valley and, very carefully, aimed them. They knew that the chances of silencing the man without alerting his friends to their presence were virtually nil. They also knew that this would very probably mean their deaths. Looking over at Ron, Percy licked his lips nervously and said,

"We stun him and then lie at the edge of the valley and engage them as quickly and hard as possible. We cover each other's backs and pray to Merlin that Drinkwater and Bitterman get here in time."

His forehead beaded with sweat and his breath coming in ragged gasps, Ron nodded.

----------

Rudyard Royle was having a bad day. Not only was he was a member of one of the few pureblood families remaining, but he was also a graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry _and_ had successfully completed post-graduate studies under no less than Professor Boris Igor Ivanovich at the Durmstrang Academy. And here he was, reduced to collecting firewood for an idiot woman!

Almudena Uzzell was his first cousin twice removed...and a moron. How she had ascended to the lofty rank of Senior Death Eater instead of him he would never know. She was probably sleeping with anything that shaved...the whore. Yes, that was it - that was the only possible explanation. Royle was an ardent supporter of Lord Voldemort and his pureblood manifesto. Muggles, half-bloods and magical creatures would all be disposed of or survive only to serve the magical elite and that was all very right and proper. However, in Royle's view at least, this didn't go far enough. Women should be added to the list of inferiors, leaving wizards and wizards alone in ascendancy. Lost in his dark thoughts of what would happen in just such an eventuality, Rudyard Royle never knew what hit him.

As the unhurried footsteps drew closer, the two Weasleys tightened their two-handed grips on their wands and prepared to fight. As the Death Eater crested the hill time seemed to slow down. There was an instant when he seemed to register the presence of Percy and Ron, but he was never able to act on it. The two brothers each rose on one knee and, in a display that even Moody would have been unable find fault with, let loose their spells simultaneously.

Unfortunately, they both shouted, "_Expelliarmus_!"

----------

Almudena Uzzell sneered as her cretinous cousin stomped off in search of kindling. Life was especially good for her at the moment as she was not only a Senior Death Eater, but she was also in charge of her dear cousin Rudy. Today's humiliation for him was only the latest in a long line of similar embarrassing incidents, all of which were but the beginning of an even more protracted path of shame. Yes, life was particularly sweet at the moment she thought to herself.

She was anxious to emphasise the division that existed between sweet, little Rudy and the rest of the world. Leaning back on her pack, she motioned for the other members of the patrol to do the same. Normally there would be a cursory reconnaissance of the surrounding area, but today the Death Eaters simply flopped down, intent on enjoying the show.

"Hurry up, Rudy," she called out after him, "we don't want to keep everyone waiting, do we?"

This garnered a laugh from everyone as they began to dig food and water out of their packs. She kept an eye on the dimwit as he went in search of fuel for the fire and therefore saw what happened next.

There was a muted flash of light and the shock of seeing her cousin's limp body tracing a graceful arc out over the edge of the valley. He turned head over heels once before landing in a confusion of limbs and old pine needles at the bottom of the hill. Her mind boggled. He must have flown at least ten metres!

Before she had the chance to shout any orders, two heads appeared at the edge of the hill at the same time as flashes of light began to rain down among the Death Eaters.

----------

Ron and Percy had never in their lives experienced anything like those two short minutes and in the backs of their minds as they pressed home their spontaneous attack, they fervently wished that they never would again.

Had they had the time to analyse the situation, or the hard-won battle experience of Moody, they might have wondered why the rest of the Death Eaters were lolling around on the floor, massaging their feet with their boots off. They were too scared, however, to question what they saw before them and, like the two Gryffindors they were, they overcame their fear and concentrated on the job in hand.

"_Stupefy_!" cried Percy repeatedly, bearing in mind Drinkwater's advice on rapid, repetitive spell casting. He was laying down a veritable storm of stunning spells straight in the middle of the grouped Death Eaters. There were already a couple of bodies sprawled unmoving on the ground. This, however, was nothing compared to the unexpected viciousness of Ron's attack.

"_Diffindo_!" he cried again and again as he slashed at the murdering scum below him. Yet another pair of screaming enemies bore testament to his accuracy.

After what seemed like an hour, but was in fact but a few seconds, the Death Eaters began to get their act together, Again, Ron and Percy were blessed by sheer luck when the four remaining enemy broke into two pairs. To their amazement, one of the pairs broke off to cover the other side of the valley, looking for enemies that did not exist. Unable to believe their luck, the two red heads redoubled their efforts against the nearest pair and as they were only showing their heads whereas the enemy were wholly exposed, the outcome was swift. Two more of the black-garbed figures lay still on the fragrant carpet of pine needles.

Risking a glance at each other, Percy and Ron realised that they were actually in with a chance.

"We can do this!" screamed Percy. "Let's get them!" With this he charged down the slope to close the distance between them and the remaining pair.

"_Petrificus Totalis_!" he screamed again and again.

"Perce, wait!" Ron wailed, jumping up and pumping his legs as fast as he could. But it was too late: his brother had broken a cardinal rule of combat and given up the high ground. Just as his spell found the tall man on the left, a blue burst of light took him squarely in the chest. His neck snapped forward as he was hurled back by the force of the curse. He hit the floor and left a long scuff mark on the sandy loam of the forest.

"PERCY!"

Ron let off so many spells against the sole remaining Death Eater that he actually lost sight of her in the cloud of pine needles. He skidded to a halt next to his brother and his world stopped. Percy was coughing up blood. Deep wracking coughs tore through his body as the nearly black liquid was expelled from his lungs.

Looking down, he froze. He was back in the garden of the Burrow once again, looking down at the body of his father.

"GO!" rasped his brother, before falling foul of another fit of coughing.

Ron looked at his brother with a blank face and tears in his eyes.

"Go," he wheezed this time. His head fell back and he closed his eyes.

----------

His breath came in long ragged gasps.

He was slowly but surely running out of energy.

He tried to time his painful gasps with the heavy fall of his boots as he pounded through the forest.

While he was young and healthy, he had never practised running for any length of time before. This coupled with the fact that he was considerably heavier than the slim woman he was chasing put him at a distinct disadvantage. It was only his desire to tear the head off the figure in front of him which kept him going.

The woman seemed to know where she was going and how to use the terrain to her advantage. She was managing to keep low hills, trees and ravines between her and her pursuer for the majority of the time. Both of them had taken pot shots at each other, but given the fact that they were running over uneven terrain, these had all gone wild.

The tears in Ron's eyes increased as he realised he couldn't keep up with her. He had to do something and do it now. The words of Drinkwater echoed through his mind.

_"The motto of the Auror is 'Think quickly, Act simply, Strike first'. Please don't forget that or your brothers will die."_

Seeing the Death Eater branch down to the left along a dry stream bed, he continued along his current path which left him above her and to her right. As the two parallel paths began to separate, he launched himself off the edge of his higher path.

The woman chose this moment to look over her shoulder. Her eyes were like saucers as she saw the red-headed maniac falling through the air directly towards her. His teeth were bared in a snarl and on his face was a look of such visceral hatred that she nearly lost her footing. In a desperate attempt to save herself, she whipped her right arm around in a last-ditch attempt to hex him.

She failed.

As his frame crashed into hers, she folded up awkwardly along her left side and felt her back crackle in a way she would never have thought possible. Carried by the momentum of the collision, she skidded to a halt a few metres on from the madman and managed to roll onto her side.

The man...the boy managed to pull himself to his feet. Spitting blood onto the ground, he staggered unsteadily towards her.

Almudena Uzzell then spotted something which made her believe that she was going to survive. She relaxed, despite the excruciating pain in her back and ribs.

"Too late, loser!" she snarled. "As usual, the enemies of the Dark Lord lie dead!"

"I don't," he stated flatly as he shoved his wand under her chin.

"You will soon. Look down at your..."

"_Diffindo_!" He watched with emotionless eyes as she choked and kicked the last of her life out. When she lay dead in a rapidly-spreading pool of her own blood, he forced himself to his feet...and fell straight back down again.

At first he thought he was fainting or had hit his head when he launched himself at the woman. Puzzled, he looked down at himself, trying to determine what was wrong. He laughed when he saw the Death Eater's wand buried to its haft, just below Moody's chest protector.

It was moving in time to the slowing beats of his heart.

Sighing, he lay down and looked up at the tree tops, fighting his eyes which threatened to close and deprive him of the spectacular view.

As he watched the pale streamers of his breath in the cold air, he cast his mind back to that day with Hermione in the copse of poplars.

The wand stopped moving.

**A/N: I'll be on holiday until Monday 17th April 2006. It's doubtful that I'll be able to post more chapters in this time, but if I can I will. There are another seven chapters to go until we reach the current limit of the story and after that I plan to post every ten days. In the meantime, thanks for reading and I hope you are enjoying it!**

----------


	10. Horcrux

**Chapter 10 - Horcrux**

Having cornered Harry after he'd taken a wrong turn into a dead end, Hermione's tears of laughter had rapidly changed into tears of sadness. She had thrown herself into his arms and wept until she could weep no more.

Harry was shocked by this new side to her character. He wasn't accustomed to her mood swings and had always considered her to be one of the more stable people in his life. Now, here she was, crying her heart out and he was torn between feeling sorry for her and feeling more than a little uncomfortable at the emotions she was displaying.

Standing there rubbing her back and murmuring soothing sounds into her ear, he mused that it hadn't been until recently that he had become fully aware of the debt that he owed to both her and Ron. They kept him sane; it was a simple as that. Now he realised that he didn't know what Ron's absence meant to her as he'd never felt that way about someone. He kissed her on the cheek.

"Come on, you ought to go and wash your face. The last thing we need is for them to think we're scared. They'll change their minds and not let us do anything useful. Imagine Ron's face when he comes back and finds out we've been doing nothing but eating crumpets in front of the fire in the common room. He'd never let us live it down."

"I'm not scared for myself," she had replied into his neck, "I'm scared for him, Harry!"

"I know that Hermione, but we're both Gryffindors, remember? We know no fear?"

At this feeble joke she had laughed and sobbed at the same time, inadvertently spitting on his neck.

"Ugh!" he groaned, "I stand corrected. I fear Hermione Granger drooling all over me!"

"Harry!" she cried, pulling back from him and stamping her foot in frustration.

"I'm sorry; I just want to take your mind off Ron, okay? He's surrounded by Weasleys, after all. What could possibly happen to him?"

"I know, Harry. I'm sorry... I just want to see him again."

"Me too, Hermione, me too," he said seriously. "After all, he does owe me a Galleon!"

"Harry!" she squealed, pushing him away and putting her hand over her mouth.

"You laughed that time," he cried with a grin as he pointed to her hand. "You're smiling!"

"No I am not!" she giggled.

"Harry Potter, comic genius!" he said, wiping the tears from her cheeks with his scarf.

They continued smiling and laughing for a minute, but then the gravity of the situation reasserted itself and they calmed down. They looked deeply into each other's eyes and embraced again, this time even more intensely.

"We'll get through this, okay?" whispered Harry. "There is nobody more important to me in this world than you and Ron and I _will not_ let anything happen to you! You are the sister I never had and Ron the brother. Whatever happens to us, whether we're together or not, we'll never be alone and I don't know about you, but that means ever so much to me."

"Together," she whispered ferociously as she squeezed him even harder.

----------

When they finally arrived to the squat tower located near the boathouse, they had washed their hands and faces and straightened their clothes. Although there was a stiff wind blowing in from the Great Lake, it was a warmer day than they had seen in quite some time and as long as they kept their robes tightly wrapped about them, it was almost bearable. Squinting against the low winter sun, they breathed in the crisp, clean air of the purple-capped mountains. So impressive were the views that not a day went past without a considerable number of students and staff taking the time to scale the heights of one or other of the Hogwarts' buildings in order to gaze out across the majestic scenery.

There was a scale to the landscape unseen outside of Scotland, a certain wildness to the terrain that was not to be found either in England or Wales. It was interesting to note that the majority of those who habitually looked out over the mountains and Great Lake were Muggle-born. Those from wizard families found it hard to comprehend the mediocre nature of Muggle towns and cities and the mind-numbing boredom they could inflict on their inhabitants. Consequently, they found less of an escape in the spectacular vistas.

"_Their loss_," had been Dean Thomas' concise summary of the situation.

The tower of the 'Fifth Common Room' was strange even by the standards of Hogwarts. As Hermione and Harry paused before entering it, they too noticed its curious architectural style. It was as if the tower had been added as an afterthought by whoever had designed and built the castle so many centuries ago. To put it simply, it didn't fit. It was too short, too fat and it was a different colour from the other interconnected buildings of the school. It also stood completely alone, independent of the network of covered walkways which were so vital in the colder months.

A whole host of unique plants grew around its base. Not only were they not to be found elsewhere around the castle grounds, but they were also unheard of outside of Continental Europe. Had Neville found out, he might well have led his fellow Herbologists on a raid against the tower and its environs, desperate to lay his hands on such exotic specimens.

Given the scale of the castle and its grounds, those buildings which were not in daily use for school activities were paid scant attention. All of the students would, of course, have laid eyes on the tower before, but like Hermione and Harry its uniqueness had simply never occurred to them. Standing before the tower which was framed by the mountains and Great Lake, the young witch and wizard felt distinctly uneasy.

Hand in hand, they approached the enormous door.

----------

If Professor McGonagall - who was rumoured to have long ago transfigured her eyes into those of a hawk - noticed anything out of place when Harry and Hermione finally arrived to the Fifth Common Room, she chose not to mention it. She simply looked at them for a long moment with her lips in a tight line and motioned for them to sit at the side of her desk.

She had always been one of the more difficult teachers for the students to read, choosing not to let her own emotions show. This did not mean, however, that she was blind to the various and rapidly-changing emotional states of her charges. In fact, this level of unawareness was practically impossible. Even Severus Snape would have been hard pressed to claim that he was unaware of what passed for the sickening emotions of his students. Anybody cooped up with hundreds of adolescents for the better part of a year would be unable to escape the constant to and fro of their surging hormones and fragile egos. One might as well claim to be unfamiliar with the contents of one's sock drawer.

Now she was faced with the scared yet determined faces of two of her Gryffindors and found herself to be in a quandary. Should she say something and put a stop to all this, or allow them to participate? She toyed with the quill in her hands as she mulled it over.

"Professor?" said Hermione in a low voice.

"Excuse me, professor?" she repeated, glancing nervously at Harry.

"Hmmm? Oh, please do excuse me Miss Granger, I was miles away. What can I do for you?" she asked with a kindly smile on her face.

"Well Professor McGonagall, Harry and I wanted to say something...to you," she finished nervously.

"Out with it then, it never pays to tarry," she said in a less friendly manner than before, suspecting she knew what was coming.

"It's just that Harry and I have been worrying about you."

"_You_ both have been worrying about _me_?" she asked incredulously. She had been expecting some half-baked arguments about why she shouldn't even be considering their exclusion from missions that would scare the robes off seasoned Aurors. Now these mere striplings were worried about her? On the one hand she was quite flattered that they would think about her as so few students would have done had they been standing before her now, but on the other hand she was quite put out. Did they think her to be over the hill, past it, fit only for the knackers' yard?

"Yes Professor McGonagall. We know how you worry about all of the students; not only the ones in Gryffindor, but from the other houses as well. Harry and I feel that you should concentrate on them and not worry about us. We know what we're doing and are as prepared as anybody could be given the circumstances. In fact..."

She sat listening to the young girl's sophistry for a few seconds, too shocked to interrupt. She had been correct after all - they were attempting to sway her with idiotic arguments! Finding her voice, she said in a shrill voice, "You're prepared, are you? Well Miss Granger, let me tell you a thing or two. You are not prepared! Nobody is, or could possibly ever be, prepared for the tasks which lie ahead of you both. Why, I have half a mind to put a stop to all of this right now!"

"How?" sounded Harry's voice for the first time. "How would you do that, Professor?" His voice was mild and his face bore an expression of polite interest, but his meaning wasn't lost on the elderly witch.

"This task is to be shared by everyone, but only one that I know of can finish it," he continued quietly. "If there is anyone better qualified for the task in hand you should use them. But that doesn't mean you should avoid using us." His voice was so low as he continued that the two witches strained to hear his words.

"You now know about the full prophecy made by Professor Trelawney. In the end it comes down to Voldemort and me and nobody can change that. But what if by sitting here I don't do something that I ought to have done? That by being mollycoddled by..."

"I know the arguments, Potter!" she burst out. "Better minds than yours have been mulling this problem for quite some time now!" She instantly regretted shouting at him as it was not his fault. Indeed, he was doing nothing more than reiterating points she herself had made. He didn't seem to be upset by her anger, however, and continued in his calm voice.

"That's as may be, Professor McGonagall, but all of these minds never came to a conclusion, did they? Even Dumbledore didn't and he wasn't able to..." he left the words hanging. "I can't sit here doing nothing. I have to act," he finished in a determined voice.

"You don't know that!" she countered, nostrils flaring.

"And you can't say for sure that I ought not to, Professor," he said with a small shrug and a sad smile.

"Listen to you! I don't now why that traitor Snape complained about your impertinence down through the years, Potter, when you can be perfectly infuriating even when being polite!" she snapped. Adopting an even more rigid posture in her chair than before, she tried to skewer him with her best glare. It was no use, of course. Before her was the boy who had faced Voldemort, straight-backed and defiant, in a duel. He had nothing to fear from a silly old witch such as herself, she thought bitterly. What was worse for the Headmistress was that they were correct and they knew it.

Looking at Harry's calm composure and Hermione's barely suppressed anxiety, she finally gave in. Putting aside their relative youth, would she really rather have anyone else out there taking care of matters?

"Very well, go and speak to Moody; he'll brief you. It goes against every instinct I possess to let you go gallivanting about, so for my peace of mind please heed my words: be careful!"

With this she jerked her head towards a small door to her left. Watching the rapid exit of the two, she put her hands up to her cheeks and closed her eyes. "And you can come out now, _Deputy Headmaster_. Since when did you take up eavesdropping as hobby, might I ask?"

Professor Massingbird stepped out from behind a tapestry behind her chair which hid another small door. "Oh, at about five years of age, I'd say," he replied without a hint of embarrassment.

"Humph! Nasty Slytherin habit! Do you have anything to say about the way I handled that situation?"

"Other than I would have felt, thought and said exactly the same as you did? No, not really," he stated with a single shake of his head. "Haven't got a match by any chance, have you?" he asked, producing his small pipe.

"No, of course not; don't be ridiculous - nasty, smelly things that they are. Why you insist on using them I'll never know. What's wrong with using your wand?"

"Wouldn't taste the same, Minerva," he said with an expansive shrug.

"Wilful children!" she huffed, turning to look at the door through which they had left and wringing her hands with worry.

"Gryffindors are often noted for their bravery, Minerva, sometimes for their recklessness, but never for their humility," noted a chortling Massingbird.

"Nor, Hero, are certain Hufflepuffs," she observed archly.

"Touché, Minerva," he conceded, clutching his hands to an imaginary chest wound. "Join an old man for a spot of tea?"

"Hieronymus Massingbird, if you call yourself 'old' one more time in my presence you'll feel the back of my hand. You know very well that you are only five years older than me!" Despite this sharp rejoinder, she didn't seem to be overly displeased at the thought of taking refreshment with her friend. Reaching into her desk drawer, she began to set out a tea service.

The sound of his booming laughter echoed throughout the tower.

----------

Any friends, families or acquaintances of Fred and George Weasley soon developed a 'Twin Radar'. It was nothing more or less than a sixth-sense attuned to mischief. Both Hermione and Harry had it, of course, and when they encountered their partners for this mission they both felt it twanging away merrily.

Seated at the side of another desk, this time Moody's, they were watching the three Aurors they had met just the other day. Moody had impressed them by grudgingly admitting that,

_"These three are to be trusted as much as anyone else, I suppose. I've personally seen them battle Death Eaters and risk their sorry arses for Muggles, half-bloods and purebloods alike. They personally irritate me to death, but at least with them at your back you won't need to worry about a wand between the shoulder blades!"_

From Moody, this was high praise indeed. The two young Gryffindors suspected that Mad-Eye didn't disapprove of them as much as he claimed to. As they sat watching him stabbing his blunt finger into a map, trying to convince Jerry Puddicombe of some point or other, they could see that the old Auror trusted them.

First of all, he wasn't as overbearing as was usually his wont when dealing with other people. He would actually stop and listen when any of them expressed an opinion. Bob Choeke was short and skinny with mousy hair pulled back in a short pony tail. He had a weak chin and pasty complexion and was, in all honesty, completely unremarkable to look at. He had been sat at the side of the room, giving the impression that he was paying absolutely no attention whilst biting his nails and cracking his knuckles. Yet despite this, when he had uttered, _'Won't work - too complicated'_, in response to one of Moody's ideas, the old man had instantly dropped the matter without a word of argument.

Secondly, they had seen him delegate part of the planning to them. For someone like Moody, who ordinarily felt the need to keep a tight rein on all aspects of a mission, leaving someone else in charge of tactical planning spoke volumes for their abilities. Upon receiving yet another parchment to read and sign off against, Moody had barked at Jerry Puddicombe,_'Don't bore me with the details, just do it as you see fit!'_ By way of reply, the young man snapped back,   
_'Don't get your knickers in a twist, Mad-Eye; I've done this more times than you've had hot baths!'_ Harry and Hermione expected to see blood on the floor and were astounded to see the old man simply nod, apparently already immersed in the contents of the parchment. Puddicombe was obviously no walkover.

Finally, and perhaps most significantly, the old Auror actually laughed and joked with them. Admittedly, you would need to know Moody to pick up on this, but it was true nevertheless. It was real 'gallows humour' and Hermione gasped when she heard them laughing about the death of an old acquaintance of theirs from the Ministry. Apparently, Basil Rowntree, an experienced Auror working under Scrimgeour, had been standing on top of a stack of fire whisky barrels when he'd been on the receiving end of a fire hex from a Death Eater. They'd found his body in the branches of a tree clad only in a charred loincloth. All of the Aurors were creasing up, but none more so than Iain Knatchbull, a tall bull of a man with dark, shaggy hair. His barking laugh had almost drowned out the other three men combined.

Hermione cast a disapproving look at Harry that spoke volumes.

----------

After what seemed like hours the Aurors seemed to run out of tasks, and thereby excuses, to ignore the youngsters. Beckoning them over to an enormous blackboard, Jerry spoke to them in a low voice.

"Moody'll be here in a minute, you two. Don't let him get on your nerves if he's in one of his little tempers; he doesn't mean anything by it and you don't want to give him an excuse to pull you from the mission. Okay?"

"Yes, Sir," replied Harry, with a terribly earnest expression on his young face.

Frowning, the older man reached over and gave Harry's hair a vigorous ruffling.

"Hey, stop it!" cried Harry, reaching up to grab the offending hand. It was no use as Jerry, though no taller than him, was built like a Muggle Rugby player. His wrists were as thick as Harry's forearms.

"La-la-la! Tum-te-tum!" hummed the Auror as he continued his pointless attempt to further mess up the mop of black hair.

"Stop it!" Harry repeated, trying not to laugh.

"Only if you call us all by our first names, pleb," he shot back with a big smile on his face.

"Okay, okay. Jerry it is," muttered a blushing Harry as he glared at a giggling Hermione.

"Call him _'Jeremiah'_, Harry; he hates that!" Bob Choeke called out.

Jerry began to theatrically roll up his sleeves as he walked towards the small Auror, but before he could exact his revenge they all heard the unmistakable clump, clump of Moody's wooden leg. Turning their heads towards the door, they all watched as the old man stumped into the room with a black look on his face.

"The Spanish thing went belly up, apparently," he remarked to no-one in particular.

"Do we know the score?" asked Knatchbull casually.

"Not yet," answered Moody with a single shake of his head, "we won't be able to bring them back until we catapult you lot off."

"Excuse me Professor Moody," interrupted Hermione, "but what exactly do you mean by 'catapulted'?"

She looked rather worried. Having witnessed the testosterone-fuelled humour between the four Aurors, she couldn't quite trust that they were speaking metaphorically. Mad-Eye paused in his restless pacing and squinted at the young girl with an unreadable expression on his face. He stared at her for so long that she thought he wasn't going to respond. His rapid-fire answer did come, however, although the intensity with which he spoke unsettled her.

"You are a singularly fortunate young witch, Miss Granger. You are about to become privy to a secret very few people have ever known or shall ever know about." He stumped over to a stout wooden chair and plopped himself down unceremoniously. Catching Bob's eye, he jerked his chin in the direction of the fireplace where there was a hot water bottle. Snatching it from the younger man's hands, he placed it on the junction where his flesh met wood.

"Merlin, but how this aches in the cold weather!" He then launched into a short, but for Hermione fascinating, history lesson.

"This tower, and everything contained herein, is a relic of the Roman Empire - the northern most transfer tower of a once-vast network. When the Romans were bringing light to the barbarous tribes scattered all over Europe, history teaches us that they faltered when at last they reached Scotland. Well, that's a load of rubbish.

"The Roman Empire can be divided into two stages; the pre-Christian days when wizard-kind pulled the strings and, of course, the disastrous days of the _'Holy Roman Empire'_ when, under the control of Muggles, it all went to pot. That's a story for a different day, however. Suffice it to say that this network of transit towers was created by the Wizard Emperor Gaius Octavianus, who was more widely-known as Augustus Caesar.

"Magic in those days was, as you all know, less developed than it is today. Nevertheless, these towers, though clumsy by today's standards, were both a marvel of planning and immensely powerful. What they do is, in a nutshell, transport large quantities of men and materiel over long distances. You all will be travelling over 3,000 miles instantaneously."

"But Professor Moody," Hermione gasped, "if this is true, why isn't this system in wide use today?"

"Too dangerous," he grunted. "When the Romans used it, they carved out an empire in a remarkably short period of time. Muggle historians are still having a hard time explaining that away to this day. All the governments of the major countries included in the territory of the Roman Empire know that they exist and how they work, but they're not terribly keen on operating a foolproof way for someone to invade them.

"You see, Miss Granger, for these towers to work, they must swap equal masses of living creatures. Back in those days, this simply meant piling a load of animals or slaves into the 'Portus Vinculos', or link gate, equal to the mass of the men plus their equipment you were wanting to transport. If one end of the gate is empty, the material arriving from the other end will strike the floor at such speed that it will end up as thin as a piece of toast - probably destroying the tower to boot.

"Therefore," he added with a sniff, "in order to keep yourself safe, all you need do is ensure that the gate in your tower is as empty as Veela's head. In order to bring back some personnel we have in Spain, we'll balance the equation with your bodies and a magically sedated cow."

"Ah, the glamour of working for the Order of the Phoenix!" Bob sighed sarcastically.

"Quite," replied Moody. "Now, if there aren't anymore questions, I've got work to do." With this he rose as if to leave.

"Er, Professor Moody," Harry said tentatively, "we haven't actually asked any questions yet, but I do have one."

"Well out with it, boy."

"Well, er, it's just that you haven't told us where we're going or what the mission is."

"We found this in Dumbledore's personal effects," he answered, holding up a plain, leather-bound tome. "It contains his notes on the possible locations of the remaining Horcruxes. So as not to alert the Dark Lord by having herds of eager young Aurors galloping up and down the countryside, we're limiting these missions to this group for now. Additional experts will be drafted in as and when they are required.

"So that's your answer, Mr Potter; you're to search for a Horcrux and it's in a mountain. Now go with these three reprobates and they'll issue you with standard field kit. Good luck!"

----------

Puddicombe paused at the door when everybody else had left and turned back to the old Auror. Running a thick finger along his lips, he paused and then suddenly asked,

"D'you think Potter can save us?"

"No," Mad-Eye replied instantly with a single shake of his shaggy head. "No, I don't"

With this, the younger man turned and left, closing the door as he went.

----------


	11. Epitaph

**Chapter 11 - Epitaph**

A frowning Jerry Puddicombe nodded to Moody, who in turn dropped his raised hand. At this signal all hell broke loose.

Clockwise from Puddicombe were Hermione, Iain Knatchbull, Harry and Bob Choeke. They stood facing outwards with their wands drawn. Despite their years of experience, it was the Aurors who looked the most nervous for they knew the risks of Apparation or any other form of magical transportation. For just an instant upon arrival, the sense of disorientation was extreme. In short, you were a sitting duck. Harry and Hermione both had Aurors at each side of them and were feeling tense but confidant. They didn't fully appreciate the risks.

The shouting and cursing in the chilly subterranean chamber came not from the five humans and one sleeping cow within the stone circle, but from the horde of young Unmentionables who were operating it. Drafted into the Ministry of Magic straight out of their respective schools, these _'...young gentlemen...'_ as Moody insisted on calling them, were vital though unpopular members of the fight against successive Dark wizards.

They were not highly-regarded due to the fact that they were young men and women who were lacking in certain skills - namely social ones. When their presence and function had been explained to Hermione she had not lost the look of repulsion on her face. They were dirty, smelly wizards who would have served anyone who could give them access to the arcane instruments which they so desperately desired. Had they but known that a wide array of such delicate mechanisms were to be found in the office of the Headmistress, they would have downed tools and screamed until they were given such prized baubles. Voldemort had tried to lure them to his side, but he didn't have such a quantity or variety of toys for these amoral obsessives as did the Ministry of Magic - at least, not yet.

As she dematerialised, Hermione couldn't help but wonder why Moody had failed to include such loathsome people on his list of why the various governments of the world were keen not to see the _Portus Vinculos_ system revived.

----------

Even magic has to follow basic rules. One of these rules was the greater the magical energy expended on a task, the greater the cost. For 'everyday' spells, curses and hexes the energy was minimal. Of course, anyone could engage in too much magic and drain themselves, but that was on an individual level. For the use of powerful magical artefacts, the reaction to the massive levels of energy required was what made the whole field untenable. This was why the fabled 'Mighty Magics' of Merlin were no longer to be found in the world. The upshot of this interesting, though academic, piece of information was that when Winifred Drinkwater materialised in the stone circle, she did so with the equivalent velocity of having jumped off a three-metre wall.

"That's it!" screamed Moody in the face of such negligence. "I'll flay your hides for this one!"

As he drew his wand and went after the scattering Unmentionables with a vengeance, Remus and a team of Healers rushed forwards. As the Weasleys collapsed onto the ground, swearing and cursing, he could see that there were three prostrate figures. Mercifully, they had been under the _Mobilcorpus_ spell and therefore hadn't suffered the ill-effects of the drop. One of the figures, whose chest was a sodden mess of blood, was shrouded from head to toe in a white sheet.

Dead.

Charlie pushed himself to his feet, rubbing his aching knees and spitting blood. With the exception of Drinkwater, all the ambulatory team members were in the same boat. She wasn't bleeding, having kept her mouth firmly closed. Bitter experience had taught her that the return journeys using this infernal contraption were always the same. When someone had died, the velocity was always off. She sank down to sit cross-legged on the platform with her head in her hands.

"What happened?" asked Lupin woodenly. He couldn't tear his eyes from the shrouded corpse and a swift head count told him who was under there.

A tearful Charlie replied tersely, "One dead and two dying."

"Enemy casualties?" demanded Mad-Eye hungrily, stumping into the circle, with both eyes fixed unwaveringly on the pale, drawn face of Drinkwater.

"Eight dead and nineteen captured," she sighed. "But of those nineteen I wouldn't hold out any hopes of another three living through until tomorrow. A further three have been _Obliviated_ into drooling morons and one more will be joining them due to extreme head trauma after he was blown off the side of a valley."

"Good! Leave the dead and dying to be found by their friends. Strip the prisoners naked before transporting them and leave their wands snapped in two on top of the clothes. That ought to send a message."

"Well you're all bloody heart, aren't you Moody!" erupted Charlie. "Look! There are three of ours laid out on this platform! Three! Two of them are my brothers! Doesn't that mean anything to you?" His face was scarlet from the fury he was feeling and just inches from Moody who didn't seem at all surprised by the young man's outburst.

"Yes, laddie, it does; it means you did your jobs and you did them bloody well! What did you expect? You've been involved on the fringes of this for a few years now; you know how it works. Eight 'goodies' out and eight back in time for tea and scones - bollocks!" he spat on the floor. "Twenty-seven enemies for one dead and two who may or may not survive are odds I'll take and so would Albus had he been here. If you don't like it, there's the door; sod off and be sure to have someone _Obliviate_ you on the way out!"

The two men stood, chests heaving, still with their faces scant inches apart. It was, as ever, the very soul of gentile courtesy who brought some semblance of order to the proceedings.

"Gentlemen, please," came Lupin's whisper. "This is hardly the place to be holding such a conversation. Charlie, your brothers are here and need your guidance now more than ever. Alastor, you do care though you pretend not to; it's your single greatest fault."

"Ha!" barked Mad-Eye. "Tell it to Minerva and she'll put it in that little book in which she records my many shortcomings!" He turned his head towards Remus, but failed to look him in the eye. Seeming to notice that he'd gone over the top with somebody who was young, not an Auror and whose brothers...he sighed.

"Humph! Charlie, I'm a bit out of practice and waiting while others did the work never was my strong suit. Sorry I snapped," he finished gruffly, clapping a hand on the younger man's upper arm.

Charlie's shoulders slumped and he looked as if he were trying to choke back a fresh round of tears. He nodded and muttered, "Okay."

"Now," Lupin interjected, "if I might suggest that we get ourselves out of the way of these good Healers? They've done what they can here and are ready to move the patients." With this he put an arm around Charlie's shoulders and gently ushered him from the chamber.

Left alone, unnoticed, in the stone circle was the dead body.

----------

Iain Knatchbull stood a shade over six feet tall in his socks and weighed in at sixteen stone: none of it was fat. He had first gone toe to toe with a Death Eater at the tender age of 20, on his first ever field experience trip whilst still in Auror College. Back in those days it was exceedingly rare to come across Death Eater activity as they had all either been scooped into Azkaban or had bribed or wormed their way out of trouble. Occasionally, one of the real fanatics with fire in their bellies would lose control and start trouble in a Muggle street or in the middle of a Wizard area such as Diagon Alley in London or Murk Terrace in Glasgow.

It was in Murk Terrace that Iain had found himself with his instructor dead at his feet. As the Death Eater, none other than the infamous Tristan Rathbone, had picked himself up after having dodged a hex from Knatchbull's instructor, the Hufflepuff had grabbed the end of a trestle table and heaved it at the madman with all his might. The fact that he had, quite literally, stopped the Death Eater dead in his tracks had earned him a commendation from one of his tutors in the college. The use of brute force and ignorance in combination with a five-foot length of wood had netted him a down-check from another. It was Moody who had saved his bacon, arguing passionately that he had obeyed the basic tenets of the Auror philosophy - _'Think quickly, Act simply, Strike first'_.

Now this bull of a man with his shaggy black hair and five o'clock shadow, this vital young Auror was... well, he didn't quite know. There was a circle of dim light in the centre of his vision and he could hear words, but it was like he was listening to them from down a long tunnel.

"Een ju fee or aiyt?"

"Zi ded?"

"Wi shupee su luki!"

"Look! Zeez kumin round!"

"Iain, juhit yer head, man. Can you hear me?" asked Jerry urgently.

As the haze of light began to come into focus, Iain could see four faces looking down at him. Jerry and Bob were both wiping blood from their mouths and the youngsters' faces were covered in scratches.

"Come on, Knatchbull - on your feet!" grunted Jerry as he and Harry took an arm each and strained to pull the big man upright.

"I feel sick," he groaned. He put his hands on his knees and lowered his head. Even though he looked like a man's man, he had never been much of a drinker. He had experienced just one thumping hangover in his life and that had been after the graduation party from Auror College. The feeling he had now was not dissimilar to that fateful day when he had sworn to himself that he would never again drink to excess.

Hermione had her eyes fixed on Bob Choeke. When the small Auror had first seen Iain flat on his back after they had all taken a tumble, he had looked at her and grinned. Picking himself up and dusting himself off, he had looked down at his friend and said, _"Ah! Did you faint? Hey, look at this Jerry, Knatchbull fainted!"_ With this he had dodged away from the big man, clearly expecting to be grabbed and throttled. As soon as it became clear that Knatchbull was in fact unconscious, the slight Auror had been beside himself with worry.

Both Harry and Hermione had escaped the rough landing with just scrapes; Harry having relied on his Seeker's reflexes and Hermione due to her slight frame. Bob had ended up flat on his backside, but was none the worse for wear being not much bigger than the two Gryffindors. No, it was the two bigger men who had been caught unawares and who had suffered the most.

A pale-faced Bob had pulled out a small water skin from under his cloak and wet his handkerchief. With a light hand he wiped the blood from Iain's face and then had pressed its coolness to the back of his neck. Jerry had his wand out and was surveying the surrounding terrain. Harry, embarrassed by the display of affection, had followed suit. He was shocked by what he saw.

"Moody said this was a mountain!" he exclaimed.

"So?" grunted Puddicombe sourly, squinting into the middle distance. By the way he was arching his back he was obviously in some pain.

"It's a bloody volcano, that's what!" shouted Bob, looking up. "He may need to have his magic eye checked. What a dick!" Having got this off his chest, he went back to swabbing at Iain's cuts.

With this they all looked up to the lip of the crater which was roughly half a mile above them. For the first time the all-pervading stink of sulphur became apparent. A sickly yellow pall of steam issued forth from the unseen bowl of the volcano and the wind seemed to be changing direction, blowing the stinking mist straight towards them.

"Excellent!" exclaimed Jerry brightly. "That just about makes our already shockingly amateur arrival as complete as possible. Full '_Bubble Head_' charms please, everyone; this stuff will blind you permanently if you don't protect yourself."

Harry and Hermione exchanged an unhappy look as they cast the protective charm on themselves - Jerry's sarcasm was unsettling. They were beginning to see why he was the boss. Not only was he more focussed than the two other Hufflepuffs, but he was also more level-headed. In the very short time that they had known the three friends, Hermione and Harry noted that it was normally Bob and Iain who clowned around with Jerry looking on and laughing from the sidelines. In short, whilst the other two acted like Fred and George, Puddicombe behaved like the adult he was. Now he was making snide comments which didn't serve to make the two Gryffindors feel any less tense than they already were. As if reading their minds, Jerry turned to them and smiled.

"Don't worry you two. This is about par for the course for an Auror mission - if anything can go wrong it will. I'll bet you anything that by the end of your mission you'll never want to hear the word 'Auror' again!"

Making eye contact with Iain and Bob, he sent each of them out to cover a different flank with just a nod of his head. They both moved to their positions both swiftly and silently. Here was the professionalism Harry had always associated with the cream of the Ministry of Magic's troops.

"Let's go," said Jerry.

----------

The door opened slowly, as if reluctant to shed light on the contents of this chill basement room, but the light could not help but show the shrouded form of the tall body. Winifred Drinkwater's breath misted in the dank, miserable atmosphere as she stood frozen on the threshold of the small chamber. She had performed this unpleasant task but three times before in her twenty-one years as an Auror, but never had it been more difficult. He was the youngest of them all.

As a child, she had been traumatised by finding the dead body of her grandmother. With the enthusiasm that only a child can muster, she had raced ahead of her mother as soon as she had opened the door to the small cottage. When she saw her beloved Nana still tucked up in her cosy bed, she had thought it to be a game and had quickly burrowed under the covers. Her high-pitched screams had brought her mother charging up the stairs with her wand drawn; a sight she had never before seen in her life and which failed to calm the already hysterical child.

It later transpired that she had died two days earlier. She had gone in the manner that any right-minded person would want to have died; in her sleep and at the ripe old age of 99. Her husband had died the previous year and she had missed him dreadfully - she had wanted to go.

This had been cold comfort to a small child whose simple mind could only grasp that her Nana had gone away for ever. In her desperation to understand what had happened, she had done what came naturally to a small child and attributed blame. If only she had been there, she kept telling herself, she might have been able to do something. Of course, as she grew older she had come to accept the fact that the old witch had been happy, loved and ready to go. What she had never been able to rid herself of was the horror of a dead body lying untended and alone. Above all other things she feared this fate for herself and for others that she knew and loved.

Consequently, whenever anyone she knew had died, she made it a point to pass a night in vigil over the body. Often she would speak to them and always she would hold their hands and kiss their brows. It was worse when it was a premature death; when decades had been lost from a life which had not yet been lived. This was the forth time that she had been faced with the death of someone under her command and it wounded her as nothing else did; so much so, in fact, that she had stipulated in her will and testament that these names be read at her funeral. As did the ancient Greeks, Winifred Drinkwater believed that as long as the name was remembered, the person was never truly dead.

Sighing, she pulled a stool over to the side of the dark marble plinth and pulled back the shroud. Taking the cold, stiff hand of the too-young man, she bent down and kissed his cold brow. Settling down to a long, cold night she pulled her cloak about herself and closed her eyes against the coming tears. Drawing a shuddery breath, she whispered something which might have been either a question or a petition for its flat, emotionless tone.

"Bubastis - forgive me."

----------


	12. Aftermath

**Chapter 12 - Aftermath**

"Merlin!" moaned Hieronymus Massingbird as he shifted around, trying to find a comfortable position. He had been sitting in the same chair for almost twenty hours now, slowly but inexorably growing more uncomfortable with each chiming on the clock. He was a tall man but it wasn't this that made him uncomfortable, rather than his bulk.

In his youth he had been quite slim and as a young man he had always managed to keep in trim without any apparent effort on his part. He couldn't quite put his finger on the age when he had begun to pile on the weight - it had just seemed to happen. At first he had been the butt of some jokes, of course; some of them from men who were tubbier than himself and were glad to see him finally follow them down the same path. Oh, it had all been good-natured as by this time he had been working under old Augustus Pine in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. To say that the atmosphere there had been similar to that of an all-male Quidditch changing room would have been to understate matters considerably.

The smile which came unbidden with these happy memories rapidly faded as, for the umpteenth time, he reached for his tiny pipe only to have a hovering Madam Pomfrey clear her throat in a rather pointed fashion. Huffing again and once more shifting around in the flimsy wooden chair, he tried to find a position which offered some relief from his aching back. Quite why it was that Dumbledore had always been allowed to conjure his own comfortable armchairs whilst he had to suffer in this flimsy piece of rubbish provided by Poppy was beyond him. Well, no it wasn't; he knew perfectly well that she didn't like people cluttering up her ward, cluttering it up and therefore did everything in her power to dissuade visitors. Still, giving an old man like himself such an uncomfortable chair was a little too underhand for a fellow Hufflepuff such as Poppy Pomfrey, he mused.

A particularly loud snore jerked the old man out of his reverie. Looking at the two beds in front of him, he could see that Percy continued to sleep in that unnaturally still manner of his. On more than one occasion, Massingbird had actually put a finger under the young man's nose to check that he was indeed still breathing. The particularly nasty hex that he had been hit with, _Astillatus_, had almost killed him. It worked by splintering the ribs, thereby causing massive damage to the heart and lungs and it was rare that anyone hit with it survived. Fortunately, though his lungs had been shredded, Percy had received little damage to his heart. It had proved to be a hard battle to save him, nonetheless.

Moving his gaze to the other bed, he located the source of the snores. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Poppy at his side with a small smile on her otherwise careworn face.

"You can hear the good it's doing him, can't you?" she said.

"He does seem to be enjoying his little nap, yes" answered Hieronymus, placing his hand on top of Poppy's. He felt her tense up and looked up at her again.

"This wouldn't have happened had Dumbledore been here! The very idea of sending young children out into..."

"Poppy," he interrupted firmly, "it was no different the last time around against Voldemort or, for that matter, when Albus and I were working against Grindelwald. You are a caring woman in every sense of the word, my dear, but this young man is exactly that: _a man_."

At this she seemed to be somewhat mollified and they both looked back at the peaceful face of Ron. Even in his slumber he could be seen to reach up, rub his hair and frown. He was almost too tall to fit comfortably in the bed and had seemed to fill out in the shoulders recently to Madam Pomfrey's eye. Hieronymus was right; Ronald Weasley was indeed a man.

She patted her friend on the shoulder before moving to the beds to check on the brothers. Both of them had been kept under sedation in order to let their bodies heal. In her ample experience, young men were never the best of patients: they were always too interested in the food, the nurses and the sympathy for her liking whilst demonstrating a reckless indifference for the medicines, physiotherapy and bed rest. Besides, their wounds had taken them to the very brink of death and the scars would be as much mental as physical.

When Drinkwater and the remaining Weasleys had found Percy and Ron, they had been shocked by the scene of carnage that had met them. They had fought their own battles, but were astounded by the scale of the skirmish and by the fact that the two brothers had accounted for nine Death Eaters on their own. A pale faced Charlie had levitated Percy and headed back to the Link Gate with all haste, accompanied by the Twins. It had taken vital minutes more to magically locate Ron by way of an innocuous tracer spell cast on his armour. When Bill had seen Ron lying beside the last Death Eater he had collapsed to his knees and vomited. Drinkwater felt no better than he did, but her training and experience won out. Knowing that there was still a chance for Ron, she had thrown all caution to the wind and apparated back the stone circle, arriving just there ahead of Charlie.

There they had administered the potions that had saved the brothers' lives from a bulky chest carried on all such missions. Never had Drinkwater seen anyone come back so far from the brink of death.

Bubastis Bitterman had drowned in his own blood, another victim of the _Astillatus_ hex.

----------

As the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors made their way up the steep slope of the volcano, Harry and Hermione were careful to keep a close watch over Iain Knatchbull. Jerry and Bob were ahead of them and scouting the flanks, but quite why they bothered was beyond Hermione. She could see that the terrain was as flat as a pancake: there wasn't a scrap of cover as far as the eye could see. The bright sunlight also put paid to the possibility that an enemy could be nearby, concealed by a Disillusionment charm. In the direct rays of the sun, the mottling of the light caused by this charm served only to call attention to the caster as opposed to concealing them.

They had only been travelling for five minutes before Jerry had taken the place of Iain. One look at the dilated pupils of his eyes and it was patently obvious that he was suffering from a concussion. Harry had enjoyed more than his fair share of these in his life and had every sympathy for the big man. A concussion combined the dizziness of an inner ear infection, the fatigue of a bout of flu and the nausea of food poisoning; never a good combination in anybody's book.

They were unsure as to how to act around the man on account of him being quite unlike other Hufflepuffs they had known. For a start, he was the least friendly of the three Aurors. It wasn't as if he was stand-offish or anything, but he only lightened up when he was dealing with his two friends. As far as they could remember, he had never really talked with anyone apart from them.

Furthermore, he scared them. Whilst they had yet to see any display of violence beyond the seemingly habitual horseplay between him and Bob, he gave the impression that he was not only ready, but also looking for a fight. Hufflepuffs weren't supposed to be like that; broadly speaking they were loyal, generous and friendly. Of course there were a wide range of personalities that could be seen between them; that was true of any of the four houses and could be seen on a day to day basis. There were some people in Gryffindor who could be viewed as craven cowards if one wasn't familiar with their personalities: Neville Longbottom was the perfect example.

They had obviously failed to keep their reservations to themselves as, the next time they stopped for a rest, they were buttonholed by Bob. Harry happened to be looking up as he struggled to empty his boots of the small stones which had found their way into them as soon as they had started to move up the slope. At a nod from Bob, Jerry had called Iain over and struck up a conversation, drawing his attention to distant landmarks. The small Hufflepuff, in the meantime, had moved rapidly over to the two Gryffindors.

"What the hell d'you think you're playing at?" he hissed at them.

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione said indignantly.

"You're both looking at Iain as if he's a mountain troll and you're not doing a good job of hiding it either. He's got enough on his plate what with seeing double and all and doesn't need you two looking at him as if he's some sort of circus freak. What are you about?"

"We...it's...nothing," stammered Harry.

"Nothing bad, he means," added Hermione hastily. "It's just that he's a bit different from other Hufflepuffs we've known; he's a bit, you know, scary," she said, biting her lip.

At this observation Bob seemed to calm down a little. He looked down at his feet and began picking skin from his lower lip, yet another bad habit of his it seemed.

"Look, I don't have time to baby you two at the moment; Moody wanted you along on this mission and I can see why; that's not what I want to say. It's just that you're causing a distraction and that's never a good thing. Let me tell you a little about Iain and see if I can't set you straight about him.

"He never wanted to be an Auror; in fact it was probably the last thing he ever wanted to do with his life. The reason he is here today is that Jerry and I had our hearts set on going into Auror College. Jerry actually did some post graduate work so he could wait for Iain and me to finish our N.E.W.T.s at Hogwarts and apply to the Ministry of Magic at the same time. That was fine by me, of course, but I could see that something was bothering Iain and it took me nearly a year to wheedle it out of him.

"Everyone looks at him and sees a huge bruiser, but that's not him. He wants to coach Quidditch and he wants to do it at one of the schools in Europe that take it seriously. We all loved the game, but Iain and I didn't want to carry on with it after graduating. Knatchbull was a good beater but not quite good enough to play professionally. That never bothered him, though, as long as he could coach the game. He loves Quidditch and he loves working with kids," he added with a quick frown followed by a smile.

"Knatchbull's a grumpy sod because he's doing something he doesn't enjoy: he feels trapped. A little bird told me that you had your heart set on being an Auror, Harry. Let me give you a piece of advice; think long and hard before you do commit yourself to it as it's a crap life."  
He laughed when he saw the look on Harry's face.

"Puddicombe and I have already decided to resign when this round is over - that's if we survive, that is. Don't get me wrong; what we're doing is important and worthwhile, it's just that we hate it! Imagine, really try to imagine what it is to be an Auror, Harry. You eat whatever's available wherever you happen to find yourself, so you can forget about the top scoff at Hogwarts. More often than not you're in the field which means you're kipping in a muddy ditch or some windy field – never conducive to a good night's sleep.

"Putting aside the non-existent creature comforts, have you thought about what it means to take orders? Think about it, Harry; really think about what it means to have to take orders from some tosspot like Scrimgeour. If you don't do as your told you'll either be out on your ear or up on charges for disobeying an order. Their Right Honourable Members of the Ancient and August Wizengamot of Great Britain and Northern Ireland would have your bloody guts for garters if you abandoned your post in time of conflict. That's strange seeing as half of them are probably in You Know Who's pocket," he added rubbing his face.

"Aurors are soldiers - we technically have little liberty and definitely have practically no social life. We _have to_ accept orders for the duration and are obliged to return to service in times of need. It is not the romantic world of the schoolboy's fantasy in which you duff up the inept, moustache-twirling baddie before receiving yet another medal from the Ministry of Magic. People die and they do it with alarming regularity!

"Jerry often quotes a Muggle comedian that he likes. I think he's German or something 'cos of his weird name; Graucho Marx, was it? Never mind, the point is that he once said something along the lines that he would never want to be a member of a club which would accept him as a member. Well these days the Auror College will accept anyone who has two arms, two legs, all their own teeth and can turn up sober. There's a high mortality rate, sure, but that's not the problem. Applications have pretty much dried up now, which is exactly what happened when You Know Who was kicking around the last time. There are too many bloody fence-sitters in the world if you ask me!" With this said Bob let out a deep sigh and started picking at his bottom lip again.

"We're sorry, Bob," said Hermione.

"Er, yeah...we're really sorry!" echoed Harry. He looked troubled and Hermione didn't need to read his mind to know what the problem was: Bob had given Harry food for thought.

"Come on you lot," called Jerry from further up the slope, "no skiving off! We've got to make the crater by midday!"

Bob scampered up the slope to his position on the flank of the party while Iain lumbered down to rejoin Harry and Hermione. Giving them a sour look, he indicated that they should be on their way with a single jerk of his head and a grunt.

After just a few minutes of climbing over the gritty surface of the slope, Harry made a big show of leaning over to speak to Hermione behind Iain's back.

"Hey, Hermione!" he called in an overly-loud whisper.

She didn't understand what Harry was up to and made frantic nodding motions with her head, as if to warn him that the big Hufflepuff was walking between them and could hear anything they said. He wasn't to be put off, however.

"Hermione," he continued in the same stage whisper, "how many Hufflepuffs does it take to boil an egg?"

Jerry laughed as, upon hearing Hermione's squeal, he whipped around to find a smiling Knatchbull with his arms wrapped around an upside down Harry.

----------

In a bed dressed with crisp white sheets, a boy with short red hair opened his eyes.

----------


	13. Old Friends

**Chapter 13 – Old Friends**

Severus Snape pursed his lips as he focussed all of his considerable intellect on extracting himself from the deadly trap which he knew perfectly well existed, yet still could not see.

He sat straight-backed and stern, but with his elbows resting on the arms of an antique green leather armchair. His right hand cupped his chin whilst his left moved a balloon glass of red wine in circles, causing the crimson liquid to swirl in lazy circles. Dressed in his habitual black, he would have been all but invisible in the flickering light of the waning fire had it not been for the ghostly pallor of his hands and face. His dark eyes were lost in shadow under his furrowed brow.

Between him and his silent opponent sat a chess board of the very finest craftsmanship. Not for these two Slytherins a common board of black and white, but rather one of midnight-black marble and dark-green obsidian. Nothing but the best would suffice for these oldest of enemies as they once again sought to humiliate the other in this most noble of arenas.

The chamber in which they both sat spoke not only of wealth and good breeding, but also of history. The leather-bound volumes lining the mahogany bookshelves of the snug study were quite simply unique. Not even the richest of the rich would have been able to procure them as they were, in every sense of the word, priceless. No, the only way to gain possession of these invaluable tomes would be to inherit them from one's dead father; as he in turn had done from his father before him.

The small, aromatic fire nestled in a large fireplace under a stone mantelpiece so old that its carved images had worn considerably under more than a millennium of usage. Flanking this antiquity were, as was dictated by pure-blood tradition, the life-sized portraits of the current lord and lady of the manor. The furniture was all extremely old; both built to endure the ages and to remind anyone dealing with this family that they were undoubtedly inferior. Everything in this room indicated power, as was befitting the personal study of Lucius Malfoy.

"I must say that I was rather surprised when you chose to play the green side, Severus; I did offer you the choice after all," murmured Lucius in his trademark aristocratic enunciation, his gimlet-eyes betraying the hate behind his mild words. He too was dressed in black, but unlike his arch-rival in the ranks of the Death Eaters, he was not averse to a splash of colour. Over his close-fitting doublet and hose he wore a plum-coloured robe which matched the heavy signet ring he sported on his left hand. There was a faint, peppery air about him; a curious scent which nevertheless suited him well.

"Unlike others I could mention," drawled Snape by way of reply, "I would never be so vain as to pass up the opportunity to gain the...upper...hand." As he stretched out these last two words, he leaned forward to place his remaining Knight within striking distance of Malfoy's King. "Check, unless I'm very much mistaken," he said, raising his glass and savouring the rich aromas of the wine.

"Oh, bravo, Severus!" mocked Malfoy, to the sound of his own slow applause. Snape merely curled his upper lip by way of reply, perfectly aware by the flicker in Lucius' eyes that he had indeed been taken by surprise. He had of course seen the possibility of Check, but had dismissed it as too much of an adventurous move on Snape's part. Now he had to consider the possibility that Snape was either bluffing or that he had indeed spotted something that he himself had missed. No matter; he would now have to re-evaluate his own plans regardless of Snape's true motives.

"Whilst you rethink your quite pathetically transparent strategy, Lucius, shall we turn to business?"

Running the fingers of his right hand over the heavy gold ring he wore on his left, Lucius feigned distraction. "Hmm? Oh, do please forgive me Severus, I was miles away."

Snape sighed. "We can play our little games all night if you wish, Malfoy, but it won't change the fact that we agreed to meet tonight for one reason and one reason only. As it was you who called this..._intimate_...little meeting and as we are in Malfoy Manor, I feel it only fair that you start the ball rolling so as to prove you are not trying to trap me."

"Trap you say? Oh, well aren't you just the paranoid one this evening?" sneered Lucius. "How exactly do you propose that I trust you? By Merlin, Snape, I used to think that I had a small talent for treachery and deceit until I met you. Whereas I readily betray individuals, I would never betray my pure-blood, my people...my kind. You, on the other hand, you are untrustworthy to a degree I would never previously have thought possible.

"You ran to Dumbledore so that he might save you from Azkaban and sheltered in his Mudblood-loving school for the next sixteen years. You taught the Potter brat for six of those years without exacting the revenge that our master would undoubtedly have wanted you to take. When he was finally resurrected, you arrived after everyone else, claiming that it was due to the fact that you had to placate that senile old fool _Dumbledore_," upon saying this hated name, he lost all pretence of control and leaned towards Snape before continuing in a hiss.

"These are hardly the actions of a committed Death Eater, my friend. Imagine if you will, Peter Pettigrew was under foot more than you ever were! Hardly a ringing indictment of your credentials now, is it?" he scoffed as he took Snape's Knight and slammed his Bishop down onto the square it had occupied.

"Careful Lucius," murmured Snape, "or you'll break your pretty little chessboard." If Malfoy's rant had evoked any emotion in him, his stone cold face did not betray it. Pursing his lips slightly, he ran his fingers over one of the Bishops he had captured. "This really is exquisite craftsmanship, Malfoy; Norman French, is it not?"

Sensing that he had put himself at a disadvantage with his emotional outburst, Lucius sat back in his chair and lifted his cut glass tumbler of single malt whisky to his lips. As the two men stared at one another, they both nursed their drinks and marshalled their resources for the coming discussion. It would be difficult for them to put aside their differences and work together; it always was.

"Severus," whispered Malfoy with a forced smile on his face, "you are perfectly correct, of course; we must get down to business."

"This room is safe?" demanded Snape urgently.

"I saw to it personally, Severus. Seeing as it is me who invited you here, I would be the first to suffer the Dark Lord's displeasure were our little tête-à-tête to be overheard." Looking decidedly nervous, he took a generous mouthful of the fragrant spirit in his glass.

"Very well," was all the bored-sounding reply that Snape was willing to give.

"Your killing of Dumbledore was nothing more that an opportunistic action on your part. As ever, you take advantage of every occasion which presents itself to either benefit or present yourself in the best possible light." He paused as if waiting for his guest to lose his temper, but was met with a stony silence. "However, for once your self-serving actions have backfired and pushed you irrevocably onto our side. There is no going back for you now, my old friend. That being the case, I feel I can share with you some misgivings of mine as I suspect we are of a mind on this matter."

"Go on," said Snape with but a single nod of his head.

"A pox on Gilberto Heel and that damned ledger of his!" spat Malfoy. "Ever since that accursed thing has come into the possession of our master, it is as if he has forsaken us. Night and day he does nothing more than stare at, at...that Muggle _thing_! If it were a magical tome of great power, I could understand; but it is not. What could a Muggle book possibly hold of value? The very idea is as preposterous as it is offensive!" Nostrils flaring, he gulped down the remaining whisky in his glass.

"He has hardly spoken to me in a week and I know but precious little of his plans for taking the war forward. Our presence has now been revealed to the Wizarding world at large and now is the time when we can least afford to rest on our laurels. The longer we wait the more resistance that will be gathered to oppose us!

"All this happens at a time when the Ministry of Magic is actually showing some teeth! We have lost scores of caches and hundreds of Death Eaters all over Europe. Our master is, of course, aware of these events but has chosen to do nothing. Just as we are on the very brink of victory, when pure-blood ascendancy is all but assured, our master becomes..._involved_...in other matters. If you have an ounce of influence with the Dark Lord, Severus, now is the time to use it!" With this said, he collapsed back in his chair. Beads of perspiration beaded his brow as he stared into the middle distance.

"Your flair for the melodramatic has not ebbed with the passing of the years, I see. One does not simply approach _Him_ and ask if he has lost the plot, Lucius; not if one wishes to live out the rest of the day, at any rate," Snape replied. "True, the Ministry is causing us some inconvenience..."

"Some?" cried Lucius in outrage.

"But," interjected Snape, "that is due to the fact that Scrimgeour has provided generous materiel to Alastor Moody. We will simply cut that link before disposing of both Moody and the Order." He once again bowed his head to sniff at the vapours of his wine. Malfoy's jaw was clamped shut at the intolerable sight of that long nose inserted into one of his family's glasses.

"What is in that book?" he demanded.

"That is none of your concern."

"Tell me!"

"No."

At this calmly spoken rebuttal from Snape, Lucius all but gave up. He slumped back into his armchair and cast a beady eye across to the decanter of whisky. He had erected wards to prevent the house elves inadvertently intruding on this meeting and he was damned if he would fetch his own drink like a common Muggle in front of Severus Snape.

"Then we are lost," he murmured, slumping back even further into his armchair.

Snape rose to his feet and plucked the glass from his host's fingers. He walked over to the antique sideboard and placed it on the drinks tray. Looking over to Malfoy, he again pursed his lips and reached out to take the decanter of 1965 Bruichladdich whisky. He raised his eyebrows to Malfoy and received a sharp nod by way of reply. Pouring a very generous measure of the spirit, he returned to his armchair before reaching out to hand Lucius his drink.

"Believe me when I say that Harry Potter cannot survive what is in that book, Lucius. If our master chooses to indulge himself for but a few days in fantasies of the whelp's death, who are we to object? There have been times when even I have despaired over the Dark Lord's ability to put an end to Potter's interminable meddling."

Malfoy's eyes flickered closed as he inhaled deeply of the heady aromas of his drink.

"You are sure?"

"I will make sure. _He_ has charged me with ensuring that his plans come to fruition. I need not remind you of the price of failing _Him_, need I?"

Malfoy shook his head. The lengthy silence between the two men was only disturbed by the occasional crackle from the low-burning fire.

"We are Slytherin, you and I, Lucius; we strike from the shadows. Potter will not see his doom approaching."

----------

A whistling wind blew faint streamers of dust across the slopes of the volcano as five figures trudged slowly up its incline.

Hermione was annoyingly good at the practical end of things, Harry thought to himself, as his breath echoed in his ears courtesy of the _Bubble Head_ charm. She never let her attention waver and was always the first to react to the hand signals from the Aurors. This was most probably due to the fact that she was able to focus her attention for any amount of time on the most boring of the weighty tomes that she habitually staggered into the Gryffindor common room carrying. It was not an uncommon sight to see either Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff students carrying some of her books for her as she approached the portrait of the Fat Lady. In fact, since Hermione had attended Hogwarts, inter-house relations had been at an all-time high as these students were invariably invited into the common room to sample the legendary Gryffindor hospitality and more often than not reciprocated in kind. A select few from the houses of the Badger and the Eagle had been entrusted with the secret of the entrance into the kitchens and the delights that lay therein. The Hufflepuffs had laughed long and loud upon discovering this secret entrance, whereas the Ravenclaws had merely arched their eyebrows over twinkling eyes.

In addition to her mental discipline, she was no slouch when it came to the physical arena either. Harry was slim, agile and had lightning-quick reflexes; assets which served him well as a seeker. Ron was tall, had excellent hand-eye co-ordination and had recently started to pile on the muscle; his broad shoulders now gave even the most rabid Slytherin pause for thought. He also had a desperate desire to prove himself and to step out of his brothers' shadows which drove him to succeed. Harry had always thought Ron would have made a better Beater than a Keeper, but had been proven wrong by Ron's excellent record. Hermione was, well...lithe. She walked a great deal, but then that was true of anyone who attended Hogwarts. She was certainly capable with her hands, but again that was true of many students who were gifted in Charms and Transfiguration. She was both young and healthy but this failed to explain the grudging looks of approval she drew from the three Aurors. She was just...on the ball. Git!

As they approached the lip of the crater, the five were all panting as the loose, shifting gravel of the slope made for hard going. It was a good job that they were all using _Bubble Head_ charms, as the dust from the shifting gravel was terrible. Even inside the protective bubble of fresh air, the stench of the sulphur and the acrid taste of the volcanic dust were ever present. Voldemort wasn't stupid; this was an excellent hiding place for a Horcrux, Harry grudgingly admitted. If Muggles were to try and come here, they would be weighed down with all the equipment they would need to stay alive in such a hostile environment. Even for wizards with their magical means, there would need to be a spectacular reason to venture to such an inhospitable environment. Even Luna Lovegood and her father wouldn't come here in search of the mythical Backwards-Running Hammersnort, for Merlin's sake!

As they inched forward to the very lip of the crater, Hermione bit her cracked and sore lower lip yet again. If she kept this up, she told herself, Ron would never want to kiss her if she got back.

"_When_ I get back, Hermione Jane Granger; when we _all_ get back," she whispered to herself.

As soon as Jerry moved his hand from the back of his neck and held it up with the fingers and thumb splayed out, they all pushed their heads and wands over the edge. At the sight that greeted them, Hermione did something which would have made a certain red-haired Gryffindor proud.

"Bloody Hell!" she gasped, eyes wide at the sight which greeted them.

----------


	14. Convalesence

**Chapter 14 – Convalescence**

"Shan't!"

"But Mr Weasley," Professor McGonagall said in her lilting Scottish accent, "for just those few months and nothing more. Surely you can see it's for the best?"

"No, I can't!" stated Ron emphatically.

"Come now, Ronald," coaxed Hieronymus Massingbird in his most reasonable tones. "I was remarking to Madam Pomfrey just this morning that I have seen not one, but two Dark Lords defeated in my day; this conflict can't go on forever, can it? What will you do afterwards without your N.E.W.T.s? What about your very laudable ambition to be an Auror? Best all round if you stay on and finish them off, wouldn't you say?"

"No, _Hero_ - I wouldn't," stated Ron, stressing Professor Massingbird's name to illustrate that the older man was no longer his Deputy Headmaster. He would have folded his arms over his chest to emphasise the point had it not been swathed in bandages. Instead, he set his jaw as he leaned back into his pillows and turned his head away from them. He knew he was being childish, but he didn't care. They were being 'capital A' adults, after all. They couldn't possibly accept that he had made his mind up, could they? It would be impossible to acknowledge that somebody less than fifty-years-old might actually have an opinion of their own, wouldn't it?

"Well, I can see that we're wasting our time here, _Professor_ Massingbird," huffed McGonagall. "Perhaps we ought to come back when _Mister_ Weasley is in a more reasonable frame of mind!" She stood up and gathered her robes about herself as if she were in high dudgeon. Ron's blood was up and he wasn't about to back down so it came as a shock to him when, instead of the slap he had been half expecting, Minerva McGonagall instead leaned down and pecked him on the cheek. As the old witch hurried from his bedside, he seemed to notice for the first time just how short and thin his Head of House really was.

"I hope you feel proud of yourself, Ronald," snapped Massingbird as soon as the door closed behind her.

Turning to look at Hero, Ron felt a rare old blush beginning to climb his cheeks. He was surprised to see that the old man's face was not angry as he had expected it to be, but realised that he hadn't escaped scot-free either. He found himself looking into an expression of surprise and disgust on the face of the older man.

"I asked you a question, young man; do you intend to answer it or continue acting in a manner which would shame your father?"

Ron felt as if the slap to the face that he had expected to receive had been delivered times one thousand. The blush that had been climbing to the roots of his hair now fled as his face turned pale and his chest constricted so much that he couldn't breathe. Swallowing against a rising tide of bile, he coughed uncontrollably and tried to blink away the tears in his eyes.

"Ronald!"

The world turned black.

----------

"In all of my years as a Healer, Professor Massingbird, I have never seen the like. Why, not even Professor Snape even dared to assail the students under my care!"

"Assail?" protested Massingbird in outrage.

"Yes; assail, I say!" shrieked Madam Pomfrey, slapping her hand down on her desk.

"Preposterous!" Massingbird thundered back.

"The Headmistress shall hear of this, you –

The silence that followed was more than complete; it was magical. The elderly healer actually continued to shout at the top of her lungs for a few seconds before she realised that she was not hearing her own voice. At first she cast a suspicious glance at Professor Massingbird, but his hands were empty and he too looked perplexed. It was when she looked towards the door of her office that she finally located the culprit – if one could call the Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that.

Her lips had been drawn into a very thin line indeed and she was gimlet-eyed as she stared at the two miscreants. Hieronymus in particular was not looking forward to the telling off he was undoubtedly about to receive. He had known Minerva McGonagall for over sixty years and for every single one of those years the two of them had been friends. If he were to be pressed to name her bad points, however, chief among them would be her acid tongue. He sighed heavily, unhappily noting that he could actually hear it.

"Poppy, I would like to see you in my office at your earliest convenience after you have arranged alternative cover for your patient," she said icily. "Deputy Headmaster Massingbird, I require the pleasure of your company forthwith!" With this, she turned on her heel and marched out of the office.

Massingbird groaned. He was in for it now.

----------

When he had been a young man, Hieronymus had been '_on the carpet_' more than once. Seldom did people use this expression anymore to refer to being in trouble with authority. In fact, he was sure that most of the pupils at the school wouldn't have any idea what it meant. For this reason he found it particularly ironic that, as he stood in front of the Headmistress' desk and awaited her attention, he was standing on a small patch of carpet. It hadn't been there when this had been Albus Dumbledore's office, so he could only assume that she had seen fit to have it put there. Minerva was scratching away at a parchment, making the point that _he_ was here under_ her_ terms; stamping her authority and making it clear that she was in charge. Had the situation with Ronald not been so serious, the image of an old man standing like a naughty child in front of the Headmistress might have been a funny one.

Wishing he could take out his tiny pipe for a quick smoke, he distracted himself by taking a good look at the office. At first glance, little had changed. The pictures of the Headmasters and Headmistresses of old still adorned the walls. Whereas the occupants of these portraits ordinarily pretended to be asleep in order that they might be privy to any interesting gossip, today the vast majority of them were wide awake and paying attention: they knew good theatre when they saw it. He also noted that those fascinating little machines that Albus used to fuss over were now stored in a wonderful mahogany cabinet just to the right of Minerva's desk. Little was known of their function and it was likely that things would remain that way for at least the time being.

Albus had always refused politely, but firmly, when asked by the Ministry of Magic to sit for a magical portrait. Even his close friends and allies were puzzled by his reluctance as no one had ever before refused to do so. It had been speculated that he had not wanted to leave any shadow of himself behind for fear of retribution on the part of You-Know-Who or his followers. This in turn had sparked a heated debate on whether or not portraits were capable of feeling pain, pleasure or any other emotion; on the very sentience of portraits. Others had pointed out that, putting the disputed sentience of painted witches and wizards aside, they undoubtedly had the memories and knowledge of their human counterparts. Under no circumstances would any right-minded person want the Dark Lord to lay his hands on the memories of Albus Dumbledore. Who knew what secrets would be laid bare to the world's most powerful Dark wizard if that were to happen?

Minerva was overdoing it, Massingbird thought to himself, as she reached for yet another stack of parchments which required her signature. Usually it was enough to ignore the felon for just a couple of minutes; enough time to impress upon them that they were in trouble, but not enough for them to begin to formulate excuses for their transgressions. However, whereas she was well accustomed to disciplining students, she was new to the post of punishing members of the teaching staff.

He turned his attention back to the portraits. He had never given much thought to the idea of having such an image made of himself; not even now that he was approaching the end of his life. Unlike the former occupant of the office in which he now found himself, he had never been so sanguine about his own mortality. Indeed, if anyone had listed five adjectives they would use to describe Hieronymus Massingbird, _hypochondriac_ would have featured somewhere in the list. Oh, it was nothing he didn't have control of and it certainly didn't interfere with his day to day life. Once every six months, though, he did take himself off to St. Mungo's for a thorough check-up.

Still, the thought of being...trapped...inside a painting for eternity made him squirm. Come what may, when he died he would face it as Dumbledore had chosen to do; without a portrait. He swept his eyes over the echoes of Headmasters and Headmistresses past and sighed.

"_Go in peace, my friends, wherever you now may roam_," he thought to himself.

When he looked back down to the desk in front of him, he was met by Minerva McGonagall's steady gaze. It wasn't an angry one.

"Oh do sit down, Hero," she said in an exasperated voice.

Flicking her wand at a chair standing against the wall, she pulled it over to the desk for him. He sat down gratefully, painfully aware of the dull ache in his legs and lower back.

"What happened in the hospital wing?"

"I was trying to bring our insufferably young friend down a peg or two," he answered.

"And that needed to be done when he was in a bed with a hole in his chest, did it?"

He paused before answering, carefully weighing his words. He delighted in Minerva's Scottish accent, but sometimes it made her mood hard to gauge.

"I'm sorry, I lost my temper."

"That is the one thing, Hero, which you must never do with children." Before continuing, she patted the tight bun of hair at the back of her head as if to ensure that it was still there and in good order. "Although, I must admit that it seems strange to be categorising Ronald Weasley as _children_," she added ruefully.

"But he was behaving..."

"He was behaving as children do, Hero," she interrupted. "The more you scold them, the more they resist you. I swear, at times it seems to me as if this school were full of donkeys as opposed to human beings. It all comes down to ego; we, as adults, can control ours and act for the greater good whilst those younger than us are unable to do so."

"Minerva, practically everyone is younger than us," Massingbird offered quietly.

She looked up sharply, unsure of whether or not he was offering humour at such an inopportune time as this. However, when she met his eyes they were tearful and full of regret.

"I sought only to help him see things as they are, Minerva. He is young and has his whole life ahead of him. I only want to help him avoid making mistakes; to let him be happy."

They sat looking at one another for long moments before the silence was broken again.

"When I see the young faces in this school, I want to curl up and die," he said. "They are so _young_, Minerva. Adolescent love affairs and Quidditch matches are the sum total of what they ought to be worried about; not the death of their families. Even the arrogant little Slytherins seem unable to comprehend the true horror of what would await even them under the Dark Lord's reign. He cares not for the purity of their blood or their ambitious natures - his sole concern is how much he can use them before he discards them! Voldemort is a cancer who must be cut from society. He must!" he shouted, curling his hands into tight fists.

She had remained silent while he spoke. He obviously needed to unburden himself.

"Hero, you and I know that we cannot make them see the world for what it truly is. They have to discover it for themselves and in the same manner as did we: by trial and error. I know that you are out of practice and can only offer you a piece of advice which Albus, in turn, offered to me; namely, to be patient with youngsters."

She paused, waiting to see if he would add anything. He did not.

"Go and speak to him, Hero. Explain what you were trying to do and, perhaps more importantly, why you were trying to do it. However," she warned, "this time there shall be no shouting!"

----------

The next morning found a pale-faced Ron sitting up in bed again. It had taken a direct order from Professor McGonagall to have Madam Pomfrey grant Hero access to her patient again, despite the profound and sincere apologies he had offered her the previous night. The two of them had sat up talking into the small hours, trying to re-establish the bond that had until recently been growing between them. Each had their own reasons for doing so, but they were anxious to heal their bruised relationship.

Ron not only needed a link back to his own father, but he also needed a surrogate to help ease the pain of his passing. He simply couldn't approach either Bill or Charlie; they didn't have that type of relationship now and had never done so in the past. What was more, Hero was able to give Ron access to a side of Arthur Weasley that he had never seen. His father had been quite a tearaway in his youth at Hogwarts, a fact that gave Ron no end of satisfaction. He felt that he at last come to know his father.

Hero was also satisfying a very basic need in that he was an old man without a family. He felt an affinity for the young Gryffindor beyond anything he had felt for any one individual for such a long time. Never one for flights of fancy, he could nevertheless not help but indulge in fantasies of an extended family including grandchildren and, perhaps, great-grandchildren. Though he knew that he was indulging in self-pity, he could not help but feel sorry for himself.

"What I said was unforgivable, Ron; Arthur would never have been ashamed of you," he had said. "Arthur was a gentle man who always found the best in all people. Please say that you forgive me?"

"Gentleman?" said Ron, puzzled. "He wasn't a gentleman, Hero; I mean, I know he was pureblood and all..."

"Not 'gentleman', Ronald - 'gentle man'."

Ron had raised his head from his pillows and looked at Hero for the first time. He smiled.

----------

In the end, Ron refused to go back to his dormitory, his roommates and his beloved Gryffindor Tower and had insisted on signing the forms to drop out of Hogwarts. Such was his ire in the face of their continued resistance that they had chosen to humour him.

He went to his dormitory when his friends were in class and collected all of his things. He left for the Fifth Common Room without ever looking back.

----------


	15. Dante's Inferno

**Chapter 15 - Dante's Inferno**

Hermione looked around in order to try and locate the irritating scraping sound. The instant she raised her head from the gritty surface of the cave, however, she wished that she hadn't bothered. A wave of nausea swept over her and she vomited weakly, barely having the energy to spit the blood-tinged bile out of her mouth.

Whatever was making the sound was getting closer.

Her head swimming, she tried to marshal her thoughts and remember where she was. She was laid out on the floor of a cave and couldn't move. Violent spasms racked her slim frame and her hair was plastered to her forehead by the great beads of sweat rolling down her face. Even when she kept her eyes focussed on one spot of the stalactite above her, the roof still moved in circles.

"Hermione?" rasped a voice she did not recognise.

She turned her head lazily towards the sound. It was that complicated little man from Hufflepuff; the short one with mousy hair. He was crawling towards her, dragging his seemingly useless legs behind him.

"Hermione!" croaked Bob. "Look at me, love; don't close your eyes! Come on, pet, talk to me! My name's Roberto, but I hate that, remember? Only Jerry and Iain call me that; everyone else calls me Bob."

"Bob?" she whispered by way of reply. Her eyes were slowly closing. "Bob, tell Ron I'm sorry."

Panting from the effort of dragging his broken legs behind him, he finally reached her side. He pulled another of the miniature potion vials off the necklace he wore and quickly upended it into the girl's mouth. If it hadn't been for the analgesic potion he had swallowed, he would undoubtedly have been unable to crawl the short distance to her side.

"Come on, sweetheart, what did I say? I need you to keep your eyes open. Why don't you tell me about Ron? Here I am gallivanting around the world's more exotic locations with you and Harry and I've never even spoken to the lad. Tell me about him, Hermione. What's he like?"

He began to open packets of self-tightening bandages which, like any good Auror, he kept a supply of stashed in the various pockets of his robes. Feeling faint himself, he risked swallowing a second potion: he would do them no favours if he were to pass out. Concentrating on his Auror training, he ran through in his mind what he could do to help her survive her horrible injury. _Stop the bleeding, elevate her legs and keep her conscious_.

Fingering the remaining glass tubes, he found the slightly fatter one and poured it over the stump of her left arm, gagging at the sight of it as he did so.

They were up Shit Creek and no mistake.

----------

"Bloody Hell!" exclaimed a girly voice somewhere to his left.

"Hell being the operative word," Jerry observed wryly to himself. Frowning, he looked out across the vast expanse of the caldera; both awed by the sheer size of the thing and disgusted by the stinking sea of fumes which it contained. From even further to his left, he caught Bob's not-so-subtle contribution to the proceedings.

"I _hate_ Moody; he's a complete arsehole! Every bloody time I agree to work with the prick I end up nose-deep in shit!"

Iain had merely laughed at Bob's explosion.

Looking first to his left and then to his right, Jerry checked that everyone was in position. He was stalling and he knew it; nobody in their right mind would want to descend into that wicked fug. Inhaling deeply, he heard his breath echo in his ears thanks to the Bubble Head charm which would be keeping him alive in that acidic haze. Thank Merlin they were wearing standard-issue Auror field kit which was magically toughened to survive just such environments. One day, he thought sourly, I'll end up on a sunny beach or in a sun-dappled meadow with nothing to do except lie on my back and look up at the sky. Tutting at himself for his negative attitude, he took a deep breath and held up his left arm. Dropping the palm of his hand so that it was facing the ground, he committed them to moving forward into Merlin alone knew what.

The instant they crossed the lip of the caldera and started their descent, they were forced to close ranks. Never before had any of the Aurors seen such a thick, unmoving mist as the one which now enveloped them. The light dropped off to the level of dusk in spring but was imbued with none of its beauty. An all-pervading sickly sulphurous green coloured everything captured under the mantle of the volcano's breath. Such was the uniformity of the diffused light that it was difficult to judge distances to the few landmarks which they could see. Indeed, little of anything existed on the upper slope of the crater; just a few of the larger boulders ejected at the last eruption of this titan.

It was strange to note that as they continued to slip and slide their way down the ever steepening side of the crater, the light didn't seem to diminish. They stayed close enough to each other that Bob and Iain, who were at both ends of the bow-shaped line, were still able to make one another out in the murk. In tactical terms this wasn't the best of situations as they were bunched up enough that they would be vulnerable in the event of an attack. Silence reigned supreme as the party made their way even further down into the volcano.

After what seemed to be an eternity of peering into the gloom in front of his nose and willing the crater floor to come into sight, Jerry spotted something. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, but something had changed in the environment ahead of them. Signalling the others to stay put, he slowly made his way forward until he was almost, but not quite, out of sight. Turning slightly, he nodded in the direction of Iain who instantly made his way to his friend's side. Together they went forward.

Harry was surprised to feel a tap on the shoulder. He whirled around with his heart in his mouth, but found that it had only been Bob throwing a piece of pumice stone to gain his attention. He pointed at Harry and Hermione in turn and brought his hands together, indicating that they should close the gap between them. Secretly glad to follow this order, Harry turned to find that his friend had already closed the majority of the gap between them. Apparently, she was no less unnerved by this situation than he himself was.

"Harry!" gasped Hermione as they met and she reached for his hand. Her voice sounded slightly muffled, but it was unmistakably shaky.

"Gryffindors know no fear," he reminded her as he put his arm around her and pulled her towards him, "which means that I'm not a Gryffindor," he half-joked, looking above his head in search of clear sky. There was none.

They immediately began to feel better, the physical contact working wonders for their morale in this alien environment.

"Harry, do you think it's here? The Horcrux, I mean," said Hermione in a small voice.

"Yes," he answered after a brief pause. "Look at Bob," he said, nodding in the Hufflepuff's direction. The Auror was watching the surrounding area like a hawk. Not only was he turning full circles, but he was also regularly checking above their heads.

"He's all business, but it's more than that," he noted. "This place is perfect for hiding something small; it's dangerous, difficult to search and you could hide an army in here."

"An army?" gasped Hermione.

"That's not all," continued Harry as if he hadn't heard her. "As soon as we crossed the lip of the crater..."

"Caldera, Harry; the proper word is caldera. It comes from the Spanish word for _cauldron_. A crater is a hole left by any sort of geological activity or even a meteor. The word 'caldera' is exclusively for volcanoes." She sounded indignant that Harry hadn't known this. He smiled at her and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Sorry, I suppose I ought to have known that if it means cauldron."

"I'm nervous, Harry. Sorry, I interrupted. You were saying?"

"As soon as we crossed the lip of the crater my scar started to itch," he stated heavily.

She looked at him, her eyes as round as coins.

"Don't worry, it's not _that_ sort of feeling; Voldemort's not here!" he hurriedly explained looking at the expression on her face. "He isn't, but something connected to him is; something _dark_," he concluded sombrely.

----------

Upon going forward, Jerry and Iain had discovered an unnaturally smooth wall of obsidian curving as far as the eye could see in both directions. It seemed to mark a boundary of sorts and emanating from behind it was a constant stream of the foul mist which now enveloped them. They looked at each other and then back at the wall. Potter had tipped them the wink about his scar earlier on, but such an artificial feature in what was otherwise a natural and chaotic environment served only to confirm their worst fears: they were on to something.

"Let's get back," muttered Jerry, "I don't want to leave the kids alone any longer than is strictly necessary. Potter could probably manage to find trouble if he was locked in a Gringotts' vault."

They began to work their way back up the slope, the small pieces of pumice crunching and squeaking beneath their feet.

"Should've brought Ron," grunted Iain by way of reply. "At least he can carry an intelligent conversation about Quidditch."

Jerry grinned at his friend's forced despondency. He clapped the larger man on the back as they started back towards the other three.

"You mean he's capable of boring any sane individual to tears by drivelling on about obscure Quidditch statistics, don't you?" he joked.

"Humph! You know, I've never managed to fathom how you bribed the Sorting Hat into placing you in Hufflepuff," rumbled Iain in his deep voice. "You're so boring and rational you should've been with the bean-counters in Ravenclaw."

"Shut it!" growled Jerry in mock anger.

"Or what, dwarf?" Iain shot back.

Laughing quietly, the two old friends caught sight of their companions in the distance. They closed the gap between them and motioned for everyone to gather around. When all five of them were crouched down in a circle, Jerry laid out his plan.

"Well, it looks like we're on to something, all right," he said with a sigh. "This place meets all the requirements for a halfway decent hidey-hole for a Horcrux. To begin with it's remote, inhospitable and has nothing much of interest or value to anyone. If someone was stupid enough to come here, their chances of stumbling across anything would be remote to say the least.

"Just out of view over my shoulder we have an artificial wall which seems to circle the entire inner crater. I can't say for sure, but if it's not charmed with some form of alarm spell, I'm a Sphinx's uncle. That would seem to point towards the presence of something that is under guard.

"The chances are that it isn't here, of course, but we started with this location as it was the strongest possibility we could find in Dumbledore's notes. If we have hit the jackpot, however, we need to be prepared. To date the Horcruxes have been very heavily guarded. Riddle's diary was protected by a Basilisk and by Tom Riddle himself and the fact that neither Harry nor Ginny Weasley was killed was a miracle. We have to be careful as we're not lucky enough to have a Phoenix to hand.

"Albus Dumbledore was the most powerful and knowledgeable wizard alive in the world, yet he still fell foul of Salazar Slytherin's ring. Despite the fact that he shielded himself in ways which nobody else could even begin to comprehend, he still lost the use of his hand. Had it been any other wizard or witch, they would have lost their lives and probably failed to destroy the damned thing.

"Slytherin's locket is a mystery which still sees the best minds we have pacing the boards of their bedrooms in the small hours of the morning. Somebody got past the Inferius and the potion which managed to weaken Dumbledore to the point of death. He..."

Jerry came to a halt and looked each of them in the eyes.

"If the Horcrux is here, I don't believe that we will all leave this place alive. We're not that good; it's as simple as that. We move together and we do not separate under any circumstances. Harry and Hermione, are we perfectly clear on this point? If you pull any heroic Gryffindor crap we will stun you and abort the mission. Understood?"

"Understood," said Harry with a nod.

"Yes, Jerry," added Hermione in a small voice.

"Good. Leave the gross physical stuff to the Aurors; we've been trained for it and we're good at it. You're here due to your past experience and for your ability to think out of the box. If we get in trouble it's up to you to save our bacon. We don't know what we're going to find, so keep your eyes peeled.

"Okay then, finger-five formation! Bob, you're on point; Harry to his right, Hermione to the left. Iain and I will take the flanks - move!"

----------

As they hopped over the obsidian wall in perfect unison, they all felt it; a slight shiver detectable only to a magic user which indicated the triggering or casting of a spell. The Aurors didn't indicate that they were aware of it, but the two Gryffindors looked a little wild around the eyes. They pressed on immediately, making it all the more difficult for any enemies to locate them in this twilight world. Not that it would be too demanding to find them with the constant squeaking of the pumice being ground under their feet. Together they sounded like a herd of Centaurs. Whilst it was true that the thick, swirling mist had a deadening effect on sound, it couldn't possibly mask the racket they were making.

Immediately upon crossing the wall they were faced with an entirely different terrain. The smooth, gently sloping walls of the outer crater were gone and in their place was a nightmarish world of jagged spires of rock and deep crevices. Worse yet, visibility was now down to about ten metres due to the thickening fumes of the volcano. Occasionally thick billows of the acrid sulphurous vapour would isolate them all from each other, marooning them in their own claustrophobic little world.

As Bob went forward a few metres to check that a narrow passage between the rocks wasn't a dead end, Hermione was amazed to find herself appreciating a certain stark beauty to the place. She was standing in a natural nook in the wall, unable to see very much at all due to the fact that she was sandwiched in between Iain and Harry. Not three metres in front of her face was the other wall which formed the gully in which they were now standing. From the dark, porous surface of the rock, streamers of gas were issuing forth. These jets of gas were under high pressure and therefore disturbed the fog around them, creating wonderful swirls and patterns. For a full five minutes she watched this most peculiar of sights, entranced by the thought of finding beauty in such a threatening place.

Though she experienced it less often these days, she had never lost the feeling that the Muggle-born daughter of two dentists didn't belong in this world; that one day she would be told it had all been a mistake and that she had to hand in her wand and go back to her previous life. She would rather die than do that. She would never stop going back to visit her parents, but she had precious little in the way of family or friends to draw her back to the mundane world of the Muggles. After all she had seen and done, going back wasn't an option.

Iain's enormous hand on her shoulder brought her back to reality with a jolt as he pointed to indicate that they were moving out. Nodding her understanding she cast one last glance back over her shoulder to the jets of gas. Iain frowned and looked back too, but looking as he did with his Auror's eyes he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Moving quickly through the narrow passage way they came to a bowl about ten metres across and three deep, formed long ago by cooling lava. Besides the passage leading in there were a further three leading out, although one of them was too small to be of much use. Bob was hovering around the entrances to the two larger gullies, pulling out various gadgets from his pockets to try and determine which one they should take. Hermione, ever anxious to learn new things, drifted over to his side to try and work out why he had two sneakoscopes on either end of an extendable pole.

Iain, meanwhile, was keeping an eye on the surrounding terrain but listening to Knatchbull who was having a pop at Harry. The big man wasn't the greatest wit in the world but what he lacked in spontaneity he made up for in tenacity.

"Me Gryffindor!" grunted Iain, thumping himself on the chest. "Where monster? Me slay monster!" he continued with his jaw thrust out in a pugnacious manner. Screwing up his face in order to look like a perplexed gorilla, he said "Monster, where are you?" He took on the posture of a gorilla, hunching his back to almost drag his knuckles on the ground.

"Get lost!" huffed Harry.

"Here monster, monster, monster! Gryffindor want to be your friend!" he continued as he pretended to try and attract a kitten with food. Jerry smiled despite himself; subtle it wasn't, but seeing a Gryffindor taken down a peg or two was always funny.

"Get lost!" repeated Harry.

"Is that it?" asked Iain feigning mock surprise. "All you can come up with is _'Get lost!'_? You'll need to do a lot better than that if you want to survive Auror College! Why, I remember a time when two idiots, they were Slytherin naturally, tried to..."

**"HRRRUUUAAAHH!"**

In an instant the five had their backs to each other and their wands raised to cover the lip of the depression. The cry had been made by a living thing and a very large one at that. They waited for a full minute without hearing anything else, Harry and Hermione desperately trying to convince themselves that the sound had been nothing more than out-gassing from the volcano.

**CRUMP**

The sound was more felt than heard; a reverberation that travelled up their legs and was so strong as to be felt in their lungs. Hermione looked down at her feet as they bounced ever so slightly off the ground.

**CRUMP**

Something enormous was disturbing the miasma beyond the three passages leading out of the bowl.

"Iain!" urged Jerry.

**CRUMP**

"I'm working on it!" was his reply as he raced to the side, jumped up onto a boulder and poked his head up to try and see what was coming. Information would help them now: fleeing blindly would not. He frowned as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. At the angle he was looking up from and the distance from them which he estimated the fog was being faintly disturbed, the thing would have to be over ten metres tall.

**CRUMP**

He frowned. That was impossible; nothing could grow that big in this atmosphere. There was no creature, magical or otherwise which could grow to that size in an atmosphere rich in sulphur and poor in oxygen.

**CRUMP**

This time they all felt their heels leave the ground. Hermione actually bounced a couple of inches but failed to notice as she was deep in thought. She looked at Iain.

"The noises are too far apart for it to be bipedal," she said.

"And it's too tall to be so close; it would be here by now if it were that size," added Iain.

**CRUMP**

This time they could here a faint sound of volcanic rock grating. Dust and small pieces of pumice fell from the wall of the open cave.

"It'll be here any second now!" shouted Bob. "What the bollocks is it?"

"It's not walking, it's jumping!" shrieked Hermione as the terrible revelation came. Iain's eyes widened with the same knowledge.

**CRUMP**

"Shit! It's a Fachan!" cried Iain.

"Fachan? Into the bloody passages, you idiots; move your bastard arses!" shouted Jerry. Pushing Harry ahead of him, he threw himself into the left passage with Bob. Iain literally threw Hermione into the right passage as he too struggled to get out of the way of the coming horror.

**CRUMP**

The centre passage all but collapsed as an enormous shape blocked out what little light there was. Something gigantic was just a metre above their heads as they cowered under the hail of rock, fearful that the walls would collapse and bury them all.

There was a sound like an enormous snake hissing which went on and on. The enormous shape was the shortest of distances from them, yet they could not see it clearly. As it seemed to rotate its body, there came a grating sound as the centre passage collapsed completely. Jerry winced as a large piece of rock caromed off his shoulder guard.

Hermione strained to see anything of this ancient mythical monster. She had learned about it in Care of Magical Creatures, or rather from her extra-curricula reading of that subject. Last seen in ancient Greece, though rumoured to have been sighted by Roman Legionaries in Syria a mere two thousand years ago, these beasts were universally held to have been hunted to extinction by Cave Trolls. Their intelligence was a matter of some debate, but it was known that they had bartered for weapons.

Even for magical creatures they were bizarre. They grew to a maximum of six metres tall and had a tough, grey hide which looked like rock; perfect for their mountain habitats. But the most curious thing of all about them was their physiology. A Fachan had but one mighty leg supporting its massive body which itself sprouted just a single arm. The beast's head had an enormous mouth lined with dagger-like teeth set below a single lidless eye. It travelled by great leaps and was able to cover ground at a frightening rate.

Magical beasts were birthed in an environment governed by the rules of evolution, magical rules to be sure, but no natural conditions had given rise to such a monstrosity. Someone or something had tampered with nature to create the uncontrollable madness that was a Fachan. It hunted without rest, pity or indeed any sense of satisfaction when it killed; it simply existed for violence.

It was a horror that never should have been.

From above their heads came an obscene snuffling noise, as if the monster were trying to suck them up through the narrow openings of the passages. All five of them stood stock still, hardly daring to draw breath for fear of attracting the fearsome creature's attention. It didn't move an inch from above them, perfectly aware that they were there. Maddened by the scent of its quarry, but unable to see anything due to its grotesquely awkward body, it did what came naturally: to attack.

Hermione squealed as a huge ball of metal lodged scant inches above her head between the walls of the passage. It was easily as large as her head, was studded with spikes and pitted with rust. An enormous chain with links the size of Knatchbull's hands rattled as the Fachan took up the slack and prepared to attack again. Lunging forward, the big man wrapped his arms around her and threw himself back out of the passage, landing flat on his back with Hermione squarely on top of him. Jerry had been the last to dive into the left hand passage and happened to be looking at her face as she looked up. It was an expression of sheer terror that would haunt him for the rest of his days. Cursing the Auror armour which hampered his movements, he struggled to work his way back out of the passage. They would face the behemoth together.

Iain shoved Hermione roughly to the side and saw what Jerry was about.

"No!" he shouted. "You go on and do what needs to be done; we'll draw it off!"

"Knatchbull, you tit..."

_"Muffliato!"_ yelled Iain, ensuring his friend couldn't be heard by the beast. Moving deceptively quickly for such a big man he sprang to his feet and once again grabbed Hermione. He twisted on the ball of his right foot and launched himself towards the mouth of the passageway from which they had entered the bowl.

For a split second Jerry relaxed. Iain was, as usual, on the ball and had saved the girl. They would all just keep under cover until they could work something out. If the Fachan wanted to waste its time trying to outwit five Hogwarts alumni it was on a hiding to nothing.

The thud of the huge ball as it crashed into the rock by Knatchbull's feet was deafening. Jerry's heart missed a beat but he could see that they were going to make it. His heart dropped again, however, when the chain continued on its trajectory and whipped the big Auror squarely across his back. Hermione toppled into the passage and its relative safety whereas Iain hit the side of the bowl square on. He dropped to the floor completely motionless.

Bob landed lightly in the bowl having scrambled cat-like over Harry's head. Before Jerry could move or say anything, the little man committed them all to a course of action.

_"Ejectus!"_ he screamed with his wand pointed at Puddicombe's feet. The stinging cloud of rock particles blasted from the floor threatened to breach Jerry's Bubble Head charm and forced him to fall back into the passage.

_"Lumos!"_ he cried with his wand held aloft.

The Fachan whipped its head around to follow this painfully bright light. As Bob raced across to join Hermione, Harry caught a brief glimpse of the creature as it vaulted clear across the bowl. Its body folded like a concertina both before and after its jump and it was obviously immensely strong.

"Move!" screamed Jerry as he started pushing Harry further down their passage.

"Wait, we have to help Iain!" he shouted back over his shoulder.

"We can't help him if we're dead, you bloody fool! Whichever group it doesn't follow doubles back to get him. Now shut your hole and move!"

----------

The witch and the wizard were both small and was this fact that probably saved their lives. They were both fast moving and the fact that their clothes blended in with the volcanic rock, coupled with the creature's poor eyesight, made them difficult targets.

"Stay ahead of me!" screamed Bob. "Keep your eyes on the ground. If we fall, we die!"

The little man was waving his wand over his shoulder, intent on keeping the Fachan after them. It seemed to be enraged by the painfully bright point of light which clearly didn't belong here. Try as it might, though, it couldn't seem to land a telling blow.

"Bob, go left!" cried Hermione as she came to a fork in the path. Without pausing she hared around the path only to find herself in a wide open valley.

"Follow me!" Bob cried as he barrelled past her. "There, to the left!"

In the side of the valley there was the opening to a small cave; much too small for the Fachan to follow them. If they could make it there they'd be safe.

**CRUMP**

"Look out!"

She fell. As her head snapped back over her shoulder, she saw the creature swing its chain and ball horizontally along the ground, scything it at waist level towards the Auror. She screamed in anticipation of his death but was amazed when he gave a little hop and drew his legs up to his chest in an attempt to jump over the chain. It was too late. He was caught mid-shins by the weapon and sent tumbling head over heels. The light went out as he lost his wand.

Immediately the beast rounded on Hermione. She was going to die but would do so on her feet. Grabbing her fallen wand in her left hand, she stood up and prepared to cast her final spell. Every part of her body felt like jelly.

_"Bombarda!"_ she cried, whipping her left arm towards the beast just as it lunged and brought its enormous jaws together.

----------

The sound of the explosion wasn't loud, but it was out of place in this environment.

Harry skidded to a halt and raised his head. Jerry had already turned around and was heading back in the direction they had just come.

----------

Bob was chafing Hermione's right hand in an attempt to keep her awake. She was splattered from head to toe in the monster's gore.

Her face was as white as a sheet and her lips blue.

"Come on, Hermione," he encouraged her. "Hang on! They're coming now, I know they are!"

Her breathing was very shallow. He had stopped the bleeding from what was left of her arm and made her as comfortable as possible. All he could do was wait.

"I _hate_ Mad-Eye Moody" were his last whispered words as his eyes began to droop.,

When Jerry burst in the cave that was how he found them; two small, motionless figures lying side by side.

----------


	16. Once More unto the Breach

**Chapter 16 - Once More unto the Breach**

Hermione was small.

It was easy enough to forget in the course of day-to-day life due to the fact that she was always bustling around with her bouncing mane of bushy hair, ready either to scold wrongdoers or to encourage her friends. But here and now, laid out on the floor of this stinking cave, she looked like nothing more than an undersized statue of herself.

Jerry moved awkwardly but efficiently between Knatchbull and Choeke, bandaging, administering potions and using his wand where necessary to do what he could for their injuries and to keep them comfortable. Compared to the other two Aurors he had got off lightly so far. However, the injury he had received to his back when they had arrived via the Portus Vinculos was obviously very painful. The fact that they had just finished throwing themselves around in order to avoid death at the hands of an enormous magical creature called a Fachan had only served to worsen his injury.

So there they were, in the active crater of some nameless volcano in the middle of nowhere, with Harry as the only able bodied wizard to protect his friends and locate the Horcrux which they believed to be here. If Bob had been conscious at the time he would undoubtedly have had some choice words to offer on the matter of Moody's parentage.

Looking over, Harry couldn't help but note the remarkable similarities between the little man and Hermione. Now that he wasn't rushing around and actively trying to irritate his fellow Aurors, he too looked smaller than he usually did. The splints on his legs which Harry had transfigured from some rocks served only to make him look more vulnerable and childlike. Laying on his front next to him was his friend Iain Knatchbull. Harry was convinced that the man had died when he had been sent flying by the Fachan's ball and chain. When they had approached his unmoving form, however, Harry had seen that the big man was wearing a heavy chest and back protector under his robes and was still breathing. Since no-one else was wearing one Harry asked a tearful Jerry about it.

_"He's too big to dodge as effectively as he needs to and he's an easy target to boot," he had mumbled as he wiped his eyes. "Trying to hex Bob is as difficult as trying to hit a house fly with a pea shooter; he's small, quick and nimble. Iain, on the other hand, well...he's a big oaf who nobody with two eyes could fail to miss him."  
_

_  
"He's going to be okay though, isn't he?" asked Harry.  
_

_  
"Nope," said Jerry shaking his head. "Oh, he'll probably live if we get him back but there's a limit to what even magic can do when it comes to healing. As far as I can tell the chain has fractured a good few of his vertebrae and compressed his spinal cord. As we can't get him to Healer right now, the swelling may further compound the damage and he might very well be paralysed."  
_

_  
"I'm sorry, Jerry."  
_

_  
"We all accepted the risks, Harry. We chose this career knowing what might happen to us. You never really had that choice though, did you? Still, sitting here complaining won't solve anything, will it? Let's get him into the cave with the others."_

Next to Iain on the floor of the cave was Hermione. She had her cloak tucked up under her chin and it hid the gruesome nature of her injury. Just as she had cast Bombarda against the beast, it had engulfed her arm in its maw and bitten down. She had lost her left arm and the Fachan had lost the back of its head. Some would say it had been a fair trade but Harry wouldn't have been among them.

Feeling faint again, he plopped down next to his friend and smoothed the hair out of her eyes. What Jerry had said about the Aurors having knowingly chosen the danger weighed heavily on his mind. It was true that they had accepted the risks of their profession just as it was true that he himself had never been given that choice. His path had been set before him when Voldemort had marked him with the Killing Curse. Hermione, however, had not been forced down that route as had he; she had followed him for friendship and no other reason. She should have been enjoying a good book in front of the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room like any other sixteen-year-old. But here she was, with her arm off at the shoulder, waiting for death in this dank, stinking cave. It couldn't have been clearer to Harry at that point why Hermione wasn't a member of the House of the Eagle.

Taking her remaining hand in both of his, Harry closed his eyes and changed his life.

From here on in, he swore to himself, he would say anything, do anything and deal with anyone in order to end all of this. He would finish with the Horcrux, the Death Eaters, Voldemort and anyone else who threatened peace in the world. Half of these people would undoubtedly be members of the establishment; respectable witches and wizards who lacked even the debatable courage of the murdering Death Eaters who at least declared themselves openly as agents of evil. He would bring down any and all who refused to recant and to mend their ways. No innocent would suffer again on his behalf; not one.

The clarity of mind and strength of purpose he felt when he opened his eyes were alien to him. He took a deep breath.

"Jerry?" he said quietly.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to get the Horcrux."

The stocky Auror had his back to Harry as he tended to Knatchbull. He didn't say anything for long moments and remained motionless.

"Okay, let me do what I can here and we'll head out. Give me five minutes," he finally said.

"That's not what I meant and you know it, Jerry. I'm going alone. You stay here and look after the others."

Still the Auror didn't move or turn to face Harry.

"I remember something Moody once said," Harry eventually said. "We were in Grimmauld Place and Ron and Ginny were playing Exploding Snap against Fred and George. Needless to say the Twins were spending more time trying to attack each other than win the game," he said with a small laugh. "Moody was watching and after a while he took his pipe out of his mouth and said something along the lines of, _'Better to be alone than with an unreliable partner; at least you know you can trust yourself'_. He wasn't angry or anything, but those words stung Fred and George for some reason and they knuckled down to that game; it turned into a real grudge match and lasted for hours."

"I'm sorry, Harry," Jerry whispered. "We were supposed to protect you both and look where we are now. I wish I could go with you."

"I know you do, Jerry. You can't, though, can you? You can hardly walk because of your back and your left leg is broken, isn't it? I can tell by the way you're moving. When did it happen?"

"The bloody instant we landed; the first second of the first minute of the whole sodding mission!" he hissed bitterly. "I kept going by using the _Rigidus_ charm on it, but it's well and truly buggered now!"

Harry tucked Hermione's arm back under the cloak before crossing over to the Hufflepuff. Placing his arms under Jerry's armpits, he gently lowered him to the ground.

"Here," he said, "lie down between Hermione and Iain. They need your help more than Bob; he's probably just faking it, anyway."

"I'll tell him that when he wakes up!" Jerry said with a grim laugh. "You can look forward to a really juicy kick in the bollocks from him when you get back."

Harry took off his cloak and placed it under Jerry's head.

"Goodbye, Harry," he said with a sad smile. The two clasped hands briefly before Harry turned to leave. As soon as his faint silhouette disappeared from the doorway, Jerry settled back in the tomb-like shadows of the cave.

"Nox," he said, plunging them into almost complete darkness.

----------

Ron sat in his Auror robes hugging his arms over his chest with his legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. He was staring into the middle distance with his eyes unfocussed and his lips pursed in thought, but was all too aware of the laboured breathing at his side. Percy was not on the mend.

Every day since he had been discharged he had come to visit his brother, painfully aware that all of the other Weasleys besides his mother had yet to follow suit. Molly had broken down in tears upon hearing Ron's account of the battle he and Percy had fought against the Death Eaters. She was unable to sleep at night for the fear that any of her beloved children would follow Arthur to a premature grave in the family plot. She was perfectly aware, however, that they were all intent on revenge and that there was absolutely nothing she could do to stand in their way. She worried less about Bill and Charlie than she did the others; those two had always had old heads on young shoulders. No, it was the younger ones that worried her.

Ron's tale of Percy's outburst had all but killed her, bringing home to her just how unhappy one of her children had been for so long. That she hadn't seen this had been yet another rod for her to take to her own back. Still, her generous heart had needed little prompting to forgive Percy and to accept him back into the family fold. Having him talking to her again was a tonic beyond anything Poppy Pomfrey could have given her.

His siblings, however, were another matter. Still seeking to blame somebody for the death of their beloved father, they had chosen to fix their ire on the nearest convenient target - Percy. Even having seen first hand the evidence of Percy's bravery in battle, they refused point blank Ron's demands that they visit the hospital wing. Strong words had been exchanged.

Her eyes filled with tears for what seemed like the hundredth time that day as she turned them from her son in the bed to her son in the chair; a child from her womb who had changed and not at all for the better. She had heard a full account of what had happened from an unusually sensitive Moody and wasn't sure what should horrify her more; the fact that Ron had killed or that it seemed to have affected him so little. He sat beside her, looking like a man with his close-cropped hair instead of the boy he should still be. He looked so much older now that his hair no longer framed his face. A few scratches from his ordeal had scabbed over to lessen the youthful appearance of his smooth skin.

Suddenly, he raised his eyes to look straight into hers. Her slight smile was met with a blank look of his own; one which he might give a stranger as opposed to his mother. Looking away again, he took a deep breath which seemed to pain him at the same time as pressing a hand to the livid scar which she knew was below his robes. Having been caused by a wand, the wound would never completely heal. It had actually been touching his heart when the Healers, astounded at his good fortune, had removed it. The ramifications of such an injury were unknown but Molly could see that it still troubled him. The small, perfectly round scar would serve as a reminder of his actions forever.

The Twins, meanwhile, were completely out of their depth and dreadfully unhappy. They were accustomed to both doing things their own way and to dealing with any and all unpleasant situations with humour. In the deadly serious atmosphere of the Fifth Common Room, however, these options weren't available to them. The grim-faced Aurors who rushed to and fro on their urgent errands had no time for such foolishness and kept Fred and George busy with boring, repetitive tasks.

Ginny was beside herself as with the school being staffed almost exclusively by retired Aurors she couldn't get up to any of her usual tricks. Whether or not Moody had set them on to her or not she didn't know, but there always seemed to be an elderly member of staff not ten metres away from her. She had so far been unable to lose them even once and was despairing of ever being able to poke her nose into her brothers' affairs. When Molly had refused to tell her everything that had happened, having decided that the details would upset her daughter too much, Ginny had refused to speak to her anymore.

Charlie and Bill were all but copies of Ron now; cheerless and almost entirely uncommunicative. Each of her children was paying a high price for this war.

Hearing Percy cough, she turned back to his bed again.

----------

Outside the cave, Harry was surprised to find himself in the sickly green twilight of the volcano's permanent fog again. Looking over to the narrow passageway which led back to the bowl where the Fachan had attacked them, he sighed. They had been on the right track before: he could feel it by a subtle pressure on the inside of his scar which peaked when he was facing in a particular direction. He would have told the Aurors but for the fear of how they would react. Enough people thought him to be a deranged lunatic and nothing more than a puppet of Voldemort without adding them to the list. Besides, he had begun to like them and it would be particularly painful if they started acting strangely towards him.

Halfway to the passage, Harry paused to gather his thoughts next to the huge cadaver of the Fachan. He looked down at its freakish body and marvelled at the detachment he felt. The moment of epiphany he had experienced just moments ago in the cave still had his heart beating painfully away in his chest. He had finally surrendered himself to his role in these events and had set aside his childish anger at the unfairness of it all. He felt ashamed of himself now for ever having railed against the guidance of Albus Dumbledore.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he sighed. He had grown up being shouted at and talked down to by the Dursleys and consequently had never felt as comfortable as other people seemed to be when expressing their feelings. For this reason the thoughts that came to him now felt as if they belonged to a different person. Though he would sit for hours in the window of his beloved dormitory in Hogwarts mulling over his problems, he had never been given over to examining his own feelings. Always his thoughts had been directed towards the people who seemed to exert control over his life; Voldemort, Dumbledore, Snape and later on, of course, Sirius.

What must have been his parents' brief feelings at their fate? In the one terrifying instant in which they had realised that Voldemort had caught them off guard, how had they felt? Were they terrified, knowing that both their deaths and the death of their only son was seconds away? Were his father's last moments of life spent on bitterness at the injustice of his fate? Or, as he had feared in the darkest hours of the night, did his parents resent their own son for having brought about their doom?

He would never know.

"I'll finish this, Tom," he said quietly to himself. "I'll make sure you never do this to anyone else again. No matter what price I have to pay, what sacrifices I have to make, I'll bring you down.

He turned back to look at the entrance to the cave and smiled.

"Goodbye."

Turning, he began moving towards the faint sensation in the distance.

----------


	17. Harry Goes Forth

**A/N: My sincere thanks to jenonymous and steve34, whose sterling efforts as beta readers have helped me overcome some obstacles and to continue writing this story. You could do worse than to check out their stories!**

**Chapter 17 – Harry Goes Forth**

Harry quickly skirted the bowl in which the Fachan had found them, anxious to make good progress before he lost what little light there was. It would be difficult enough to accomplish what lay ahead without having to do it on his hands and knees in the dark. Choosing the path in which Iain and Hermione had sheltered from the attack, he turned sideways and crabbed down it as fast as he was able. Jerry could harp on to his heart's content about the need to stay together, but on his own he would be able to make much better time. He was slim, agile and knew in which direction he was headed. The two larger Aurors looked as if they had been built out of stone they were so strong. Their broad shoulders coupled with the fact that they were wearing armour on their upper bodies didn't make for fast travelling.

As he pressed on copious amounts of gritty powder fell over his shoulders, the product of his passage through the surprisingly delicate pumice passageway. Pausing to catch his breath, Harry realised that his muscles were aching a lot more that they should have been for the amount of running around he had been doing. He put his hands on his knees as he drew deep breaths and also noticed that his feet had sunk into the loose volcanic gravel up to his ankles. It was then that a disturbing thought dawned on him: in this shifting, temporary landscape which was renewed every time the volcano so much as hiccupped, how was it possible to find a place both secure and permanent enough to serve as a hiding place?

Surely even Voldemort didn't have so much power as to be able to interfere with the power contained in this gigantic natural furnace? If he did then what chance did he have against such power? Although Harry had now accepted his role in the prophecy, that didn't mean that he felt confident about it. Albus Dumbledore's assertion that his greatest power and ally was love still rang a little too empty for his liking.

"Focus, Harry!" he chided himself, angry at his own pessimism.

Moving along with renewed purpose, he found himself again dislodging large chunks of the wall. That they hadn't been buried alive as the massive Fachan had raged above them had been nothing short of a miracle. He came to the end of the passage and tried to get his bearings but was again frustrated by the soul-sapping murk of the crater. Desperately looking around for some point of reference, he could see precious little except the ever steepening downwards slope. Hopelessly lost, he had no choice but to close his eyes and concentrate; to focus on his scar and wait for _it_ to happen again.

Breathing deeply but slowly to calm his heart, he waited to see if the same thing would happen as had done before. He shuddered at the thought of the short, intense pain he hoped to experience. The first time he had put it down to nerves, never thinking for one moment that the link he shared with Voldemort would somehow extend to the fractured pieces of his black soul. Even after he had begun to suspect the dark truth of the matter just after Albus Dumbledore's death, he had dismissed the idea as nonsense. After all, that fateful night in Godric's Hollow which had culminated in the failed attempt on his own life had been intended to create the seventh and final Horcrux. How could he be connected to the pieces of the vital force which had already been torn from the Dark Lord's foul breast?

Without warning his knees folded and he vomited violently. He could feel something like a blunt and rusty dagger being dragged around the inside of his skull. His throat was raw as he screamed as he had never done before, feeling his mind teetering on the brink of a deep, dark abyss.

----------

He awoke some time later lying face down in a small pool of his own blood. This time had been the worst of all and in his agony he had bitten through his lower lip. Had the pain gone on any longer he might well have followed Neville Longbottom's parents into the welcome haven of madness. Flopping over onto his back he looked down at himself and muttered, _"Scourgify",_ cleaning in an instant all of the blood and vomit. He laughed weakly as he realised that he was worrying about leaving a mess at the same time as being covered head to toe in volcanic ash, smelling as if he had sweated his way through fifty Quidditch matches and, to top it all off, being almost certain to die before he destroyed the Horcrux.

"I am a Gryffindor; I know no fear," he muttered to himself as he lay flat on his back, looking up at the scudding fumes of the volcano.

What had started as a feeble joke with Hermione had become a mantra on which he could pin his hopes for his friends and for himself. Closing his eyes and taking another cleansing breath, he thought of the soft lips and gentle scent of a certain young Gryffindor for the first time in a long while. Taking heart from the gentle shiver this brought - a fortifying caress against the fading pain - he propped himself up on his elbows and looked out across the landscape with a different set of eyes than before.

Having told nobody of the previous occasions on which this had happened, he really didn't know what to make of it. He had discovered quite by accident that when he was near Voldemort or seemingly anything connected with him, he was aware of it. Often it had been on a subconscious level and thinking back it made sense. Sometimes he would find himself out of sorts for absolutely no reason whatsoever - in the middle of a meal, class or game of chess with Ron, for example, he would suddenly experience a vast emptiness inside of himself. At the time he had simply put it down to worrying about things in general and had shrugged it off. With the benefit of hindsight, however, he could now link each of these occasions to the proximity of evil. Be it Severus Snape, Peter Pettigrew in the guise of Scabbers, Lucius Malfoy or even the presence of that malevolent dwarf Umbridge, Harry could attribute each episode to one such person.

Later, when he was in the presence of Voldemort, Tom Riddle's diary or fighting for his very life against Bellatrix Lestrange in the Ministry of Magic, he had experienced the same sensation but tenfold. It was the after the death of Sirius, however, that he had accidentally discovered how to slip into the _Voldy Vision_ as he referred to it. He had been moping around Grimmauld Place, trying to avoid everyone and their attempts to jolly him up and had found himself in his Godfather's bedroom, slumped on the bed with his head in his hands. Staring into the middle distance with his eyes focussed on nothing in particular, it had happened for the first time.

Had he been asked to describe the experience, Harry would have been hard pressed to do so. He could only liken it to one of the fads that Dudley had gone through, when he had plastered the walls of his bedroom with those strange Muggle pictures which look like spaghetti but have an image hidden in them. Apparently the trick was not to focus on the poster itself, but to look through it and focus your eyes behind the picture. It was then and only then would you be able to see the hidden design. Dudley had been delighted that Harry could never see anything and had consequently stuck with that trend longer than he did with most.

Harry had been experiencing the hollow feeling all morning but had put it down to his misery at Sirius' death. When he had let his mind go blank and had concentrated on the sensation, however, he had been in for a royal shock. The world had turned a dirty white and there remained only a suggestion of the solid objects which surrounded him. What he could see in harsh, black tones had been more than a few of the nastier magical objects belonging to the Black family. He had found an enchanted ring in a rat's nest behind the skirting board of the sitting room, a magical comb of snake's fangs under a cupboard in the kitchen and a charmed snuff box an the attic. Moody had whipped them away in short order when Harry had asked him about them. Apparently, they had all been cursed to do nasty things to unsuspecting Muggles.

At the time he hadn't mentioned what had happened in case it would spark yet another round of twenty questions and in any case, he had simply assumed that everyone could do it. But no, it soon became apparent that once again he had been saddled with another wonderful 'gift' which he would have gladly forsaken. He could 'see' any person or thing which contained Dark magic. At least he could if he concentrated on doing so and accepted that he would feel like death warmed up for three days after having done so.

Trying to settle his heaving stomach he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, desperate to get this over and done with. His neck felt like rubber as he strained to lift his leaden head and focus the hot coals that were his eyes on the terrain before him. He gulped as he felt a particularly strong wave of nausea wash over him in response to the extraordinary sight which held his eyes.

He was looking at an enormous column of pulsing, hazy blackness. He could only liken the image to the precious negatives of his Uncle Vernon's and Aunt Petunia's wedding which he had once spent a boring few hours rearranging by way of punishment for a minor transgression. Unless you knew what you were looking at, you would have to spend a few moments puzzling it all out. Here it seemed to him as if there was a tunnel leading underground - that would account for the solid black thread - surrounded by a powerful magic field.

He hardly had the chance to fix the image in his mind before he once again fell unconscious to the floor.

----------

Upon regaining consciousness he stayed sprawled out where he was for a long time. His face was sticky with a few drops of blood and he suspected he had burst a few capillaries in his eyes. This happened to him regularly when he was playing Quidditch due to the centrifugal forces he and the other players experienced as they threw themselves around the pitch on their brooms; nose-bleeds and even ear-bleeds were not unheard of either. This was a quite different sensation, however. There was a deep, throbbing ache in his eyes as he calmed his breathing and steeled himself for what lay ahead.

He knew he didn't have much energy left and would have risked a quick nap had it not been for his friends in that dark, cheerless cave. The thought of Iain staring up at the roof as he listened to the laboured breathing of their injured friends spurred him on.

"Ron, you lazy-arse, I wish you were here with me now!"

Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet and tottered off in the direction of the tunnel. It was difficult to say how far it was to the entrance, but judging by what he had seen in that weird, other-worldly sight the path was not a straight one. As he came to yet another knot of solidified lava which forced him to branch off down a gully which took him away from his goal, he laughed. His life was like trying to get to this bloody tunnel, he mused to himself as he trotted along, in that no matter what he wanted to do, the path was never a straight one.

"Three years in Auror College and no one thinks that carrying a broom might pay off?" he muttered ruefully.

Finally, dripping sweat and with his heart thumping in his throat, he found what he was looking for. As he plodded out of another narrow passageway into what must have been almost the lowest part of the crater, he could see that the ever present fog of the volcano was being disturbed by a fairly powerful wind. The source of this current of air came from behind a twisted column of rock which looked quite unlike the ubiquitous pumice stone. Although he couldn't have identified it if his life had depended on it, Harry knew that this rock looked altogether different. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and walked towards the mouth of the tunnel.

----------

The smooth shaft leading down into the ground looked entirely unnatural. For one thing it was perfectly cylindrical and for another the atmosphere inside it was crystal clear. Frowning at this second observation, Harry raised his wand and said,

"_Revela Ambientus!"_

Immediately, the tip of his wand began to shine with a steady pale blue light. As he stared unbelievingly at his wand, he was revealed by the light. Streaked liberally with blood, dirt and rivulets of sweat, there was the face of a troubled young man as opposed to that of a boy. The seconds ticked by as he pursed his lips and waited for the light to show any hint of changing its hue. After what felt to him as if an age had passed, he sighed and pointed his wand directly at his head.

"_Finite Incantatem!"_

As the bubble of clear air disappeared, he closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath of the air surrounding him. Despite the previous testimony of his wand, he was pleasantly surprised to find it both crisp and odourless. Quickly putting two and two together, he began to strip himself of his Auror armour; agility would be more important here than the scant protection afforded him by the standard issue Ministry of Magic equipment.

There was obviously someone alive down here.

As he slowly made his way down the gently sloping tunnel, he was both relieved and shaken to see a warm yellow light ahead of him. Had he been accompanied by others, he would have risked slipping into the other vision to check up on what was ahead. Unfortunately, though perhaps not unusually, he was alone and therefore did not have that option. Now more than ever he needed to have his wits about him and could ill afford to weaken himself by tapping into that unwelcome ability again. He began to feel just a little bit better when he saw that the shaft continued on, straight as an arrow, until it reached the source of the light. Here, at least, there would be little opportunity for traps and treachery.

Finally he found himself at the very end of his short journey and, possibly, this mission. There was a large and warmly lit cave in front of him with a crackling fire burning in an alcove to his left and a low, dark opening to his right. In front of him, at the very back of the cave, was an obsidian plinth on which sat a simple golden goblet.

His heart skipped a beat. It was here; Helga Hufflepuff's cup was here after all.

Bearing in mind Jerry's words about the low possibility of them all surviving if the Horcrux was indeed to be found here in the crater, Harry stepped into the chamber with his wand held out before him and his heart once again in his mouth. This time he would neither enjoy the timely aid of Fawkes nor the protection of his master - this time he was all alone.

----------

As he inched his way forward, Harry could not have been less prepared for the shocking reality of the guardian of the Horcrux.

He whipped around and snarled as, from the opening to the right of the cave which he had seen before, he heard a cough. Only it wasn't just a cough; rather it was a deep, tearing cough which went on and on and sounded as if it would only really end in the death of the creature producing such a wretched sound.

His breath coming in ragged gasps, Harry prepared himself to do battle with some other denizen of the deep - a creature so vile as to put the Fachan to shame. Consequently, he was shocked to see a short, wiry figure emerge clumsily from the opening. Bent and unsteady on its feet, the figure straightened as much as it was able to reveal a hunch-backed old man with long, matted grey hair dressed in filthy rags. He was undoubtedly a wizard as, in a pouch suspended around his neck by way of a leather thong, there was wand.

Unsure of how to respond to this development, Harry put his back against the wall and prepared to hex the figure into next week if it so much as looked at him in a suspicious manner. When he saw the lack eyes of the wizard fix on him, therefore, he was flabbergasted when he saw a hesitant smile and a wave.

"Thee?" said the man.

"Excuse me?" said Harry weakly.

"Zou u van een kop van thee houden?" rasped the figure, pointing to the fire.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand you," answered a dazed Harry.

The old man cackled and danced a little jig on the spot. Frowning slightly as his eyes took in Harry's raised wand, he very slowly reached up to take his wand and pointed it at his own throat.

"_Traductus,"_ he croaked. "Nu doet u het zelfde," he added.

At Harry's blank look he merely giggled before pointing to his wand and Harry's throat in an exaggerated manner and enunciating "_Tra-DUC-tus_" very carefully and making his wrist movements very clear.

As quick as a Snitch, Harry reached a decision. He cast the spell on himself and whipped his wand back to cover the old man in the blink of an eye.

"Uitstekend, snel leert u."

"_Excellent, you learn quickly."_

Harry blinked. It was like hearing a louder, clearer echo of the original words but they were in his head as opposed to his ears.

"U kunt nu spreken, mijn jonge vriend. Wij kunnen elkaar begrijpen als wij langzaam spreken."

"_You can speak now, my young friend. We can understand each other if we speak slowly."_

"Oh...okay," he muttered.

"Zou u van wat thee houden?"

"_Would you like some tea?"_

"Er, no thank you," Harry answered, unsure how to react in this truly unbelievable situation but not wanting to be rude.

"Let op u als ik wat heb?"

"_Do you mind if I have some?"_

"Not at all," he answered.

As the old man shuffled towards the fire, Harry gathered his wits about him. Here he was, on the brink of reaching his goal of Helga Hufflepuff's cup - which was itself a Horcrux of the single most evil wizard in the history of the world - and he was being offered tea. To top it all off, the old man was seemingly harmless and had turned his back on Harry as he busied himself with his tea. The situation beggared belief! Had it not been for the seriousness of the situation, it would have been one of the funniest episodes of Harry's life. Feeling more in control of the situation, he gradually began to relax. The dirty old wizard finished brewing his tea and, cup in hand, turned back to Harry and smiled agreeably.

"_Are you sure?"_ he asked, raising his cup.

"Maybe later," said Harry, not wishing to give offence.

"_As you wish,"_ he said. _"My name is Rand, by the way; Rand Loomans."_

"I'm Harry Potter."

"_You are English?"_

"Yes, I am."

"_I thought so. Only the English are so bad with translation spells,"_ he said with a chuckle as he sipped his tea.

"Erm, are you here alone?" asked Harry.

"_Of course, how many guards do you think that needs?"_ he grunted as he jerked his head in the direction of the cup. His eyes had narrowed at Harry's question.

"You, you know what it is?" gasped Harry.

"_It is Lord Voldemort's cup and so much more,"_ he said with a giggle. _"It is a receptacle for a piece of his soul...and my salvation,"_ he added.

"I'm very sorry, sir. I don't think I understand you. You know that it is a Horcrux but you think that it's good?"

"_Oh, without doubt, my young friend. You see, it is this cup which is keeping me alive!"_

With a flourish which belied his age, Loomans drew his wand and pointed it at the dais at the back of the cave.

"_Desvela Vinculos Alma!"_ he intoned.

Harry gasped as a slip, silvery thread was revealed. It led directly from the old man's chest to the golden cup on the dais. The thread disappeared as Loomans lowered his wand.

"_Lord Voldemort is cunning, young man. Why? Well, if he had chosen to enslave somebody, to force them to guard this most precious of treasures, why...they might very well kill themselves!"_ He waggled his bushy eyebrows as if letting Harry in on a splendid joke.

"Do you mean to say you aren't a prisoner?" asked Harry.

"_Well,"_ said the old man as he rubbed his belly, _"I can't say I would have chosen this place as my home, but the Dark Lord's treasure sustains me and guarding such a unique item surely beats being dead!"_

"The cup is keeping you alive?" gasped Harry as the horrible truth dawned on him.

"_When Lord Voldemort found me I was dying. There had been a battle between some of his Death Eaters and some Agents of the Dutch Ministry for Magical Affairs. I had no part in this battle being a teacher in our local school for young learners, yet that didn't prevent me being struck down by a hex!"_ he finished with an angry snarl on his face.

"But...I don't understand, sir. If the Death Eaters hexed you, why are you helping..."

"_It was not the Death Eaters who wounded me to death's door - it was the Aurors! They were meant to protect me but instead they took my life away!"_ screamed the old man. _"Lord Voldemort merely gave me a choice: to die there and then or to continue living in his service and to have the opportunity to avenge myself on the people who all but ended my life. I kissed the hem of his robe and entered his service...willingly,"_ he spat.

"Look, we can help you leave this place. You must have relatives; a family waiting for you back home? We could..."

"_THEY KILLED MY PREGNANT WIFE!"_ he screamed. _"THEY TOOK AWAY MY BEAUTIFUL MARIANNE AND MY BABY AND I WILL MAKE THEM PAY!"_

Harry's heart sunk as he realised now that the old man was quite mad. Be it with grief for his loss or the long isolation of his imprisonment, he was no longer sane and impossible to reason with. Whether his story was true or not, he knew he would have to fight the man to get to the Horcrux. These thoughts flashed through Harry's mind in an instant. He knew he should attack the man without hesitation - that's what Moody would have him do. His conscience would not allow him to do so, however. He had to attempt to make the man see reason.

"Sir? Rand? We can help you leave this place and..."

"_Atrevesa Costa!"_ yelled the bent old man as he whipped his wand towards Harry.

Harry felt no pain, but had the wind knocked out of him as the red bolt caught him in the floating ribs under his left arm. Such was the speed of his answering spell that he didn't notice that his blood had left a sizeable splash on the wall of the cave.

"_Everte Statem!"_ he shouted.

This spell could send its target head over heels depending on the strength of the caster. It was a favourite of school children as it rarely did more than dump the victim unceremoniously on his or her back. Such was the force of Harry's casting that it sent Loomans into the side of the cave with a sickening crunch. He slid to the floor with a wail, his left arm bent at an insane angle and the left side of his face a bloody mess. Harry hesitated at the sight of the physical damage he had caused and this would cost him dear.

"_Corta Sonris!"_ cried the old man with a flick of his wand.

A searing red line of pain whipped Harry across the face and he staggered back. This time there was no mistaking his own blood - it painted his left arm scarlet as he brought it away from his face. There was a deep gash which had lashed horizontally across his cheeks and knocked a couple of his front teeth out. He was in real trouble now - if he couldn't speak to cast his spells he would die.

"_Carpe Retractum!"_ he shouted, spraying his own blood over a wide arc.

Once again the old man flew threw the air to be dashed against the unyielding wall of the cave. Not even bothering to try and lift himself from the floor, he made one last-ditch attempt to bring his young enemy down.

"_Crucio!"_

Harry threw himself towards the centre of the cave to give himself the maximum number of possibilities for his spell casting. As the old man pushed himself to his knees, there was a look of feral hatred in his opponent's eyes. Harry let loose with another simple yet powerful spell.

"_Rictusempra!"_

It was a telling blow. This time the old man crashed against the plinth upon which stood the cup. Laying half on and half off the platform, he moved his head in a series of jerks until he could see the Horcrux. After a few brief moments his twitching body stilled completely.

Harry was left on his hands and knees, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood from his two deep wounds. He had just killed a man by smashing his body repeatedly against the jagged rock of the cave walls. He sobbed as he stood and staggered towards the Horcrux and the man he had just murdered. Thinking of Arthur Weasley, Hermione, Jerry, Iain and Bob he tired to concentrate on his vow to fight evil and all who stood in his way.

Even the innocent victims such as Rand Loomans.

----------

Later that night back in Hogwarts, Ron was rudely awakened when Moody grabbed him by the shoulder. The grizzled Auror nodded towards the increasing glow coming from the circle on the floor of the circle and said,

"They're coming!"

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	18. Time for a Breather

**Chapter 18 - Time for a Breather**

The clear, weak winter sun bathed the hospital wing in painfully bright light. What with it being early morning, the fiery globe was only just peeking over the horizon and its rays entered the cavernous room almost horizontally to paint the outline of the ornate stone windows in shadow on the opposite walls. The occupants of the room squinted in their sleep and began to move their limbs in protest until privacy screens were quickly deployed to block the light. Their friends moved quickly as, above all, sleep was important for these patients.

Despite the frequent jokes to the effect that Harry Potter had his own private bed there, he had never yet spent one of his bouts under the tender ministrations of Madame Pomfrey in the same bed. Each time he was in a slightly different position and woke to a somewhat altered view of the ceiling. This morning, however, he would not be greeted by any view at all as he was drugged up to the gills with Dreamless Sleeping Potion. Even Mad-Eye Moody had raised his bushy eyebrows at the extent of Poppy Pomfrey's ire when she had been roused in the small hours of the morning to deal with his latest set of injuries. She was determined to keep him in his bed for longer than average this time.

Harry had been weak and incoherent from loss of blood but in high spirits nonetheless due to the fact that despite their mauling, he and his friends had made it back alive and with the Horcrux. He had been pinned to the bed by Bill and Charlie Weasley as he had been resisting treatment, insisting that the others be seen to first. However, due to the competent triage and subsequent treatment of them all by Jerry Puddicombe, they were all less urgent cases than he himself was. He had been found to be suffering from two shattered floating ribs, a deep puncture wound in his lower left abdomen, minor damage to his left kidney, a fractured wrist, an extremely deep laceration across both of his cheeks, four lost teeth and a compressed fracture of his right cheekbone. Either of the spells that had wounded him might very easily have finished him off had they been but a few inches lower. He had been very lucky to say the least.

Iain Knatchbull was in a small ante-chamber of his own due to the complicated nature of his own very serious injuries. As had been feared, the swelling of his spinal cord had served to complicate matters considerably. Whilst being in no immediate danger of dying, it was far from certain that he would ever walk again. Indeed, given that Poppy would not meet anyone's eyes when asked this very question it seemed doubtful that he would.

Jerry Puddicombe and Bob Choeke were both unnaturally still in their beds, frozen in place as they were by the traction spells which would immobilise their broken legs. They wouldn't be there for too long as Madame Pomfrey's potions would soon heal them, but she had taken the decision to keep these two unconscious to prevent them from moving about too much and thereby hinder her efforts to heal them. Bob's badly shattered legs would require extensive physiotherapy, however, to bring them back to a full range of mobility. He, at least, would enjoy a brief respite before returning to the field.

Being the only girl, Hermione was kept slightly apart from the others and looked as if she didn't belong there. With the clean, crisp cotton sheets tucked up under her chin there was precious little clue as to the nature of her gruesome loss. With her clear skin and her long hair spread out on the pillow she looked the very picture of good health. Only by staring long and hard at her slumbering form would it be possible to notice that she was missing her left arm. Nothing had yet been said about the possibilities of replacing it.

All in all it was a grim picture but Alastor sought to remind everyone of just how lucky they all were to be alive - five out and five back was a rare occurrence in this day and age.

_"Lucky?"_ had been Fred Weasley's incredulous response.

They were not the only occupants of the hospital wing, however. Though now able to walk for short periods of time with the aid of two walking sticks, Percy Weasley was still a long way away from having made a full recovery. Even before his injury he had been whip thin and if there was one thing that Madame Pomfrey could not abide it was a skinny patient. For once in the history of Hogwarts there was the happy marriage of on overbearing carer and a love-starved patient. Percy was only too happy to be cooped up in the hospital wing and spoon fed several times a day. Though there had been a marked thawing in his troubled relationship with his siblings, he still felt unjustly neglected. Whatever attention he could gain was a welcome distraction from his long and painful road to recovery.

----------

"May Merlin curse us all for fools!" huffed Mad-Eye Moody as he yanked open a drawer of the desk in his small and dingy study and started to rifle through its contents.

"He my curse you, Moody, but leave me out of it!" said Winifred Drinkwater with an arched eyebrow and the faintest hint of a smile. "What's got your goat anyway? I thought you were pleased at the result of Potter's latest jaunt. A little bird told me you actually smiled when you saw the Horcrux. Where is it by the way?"

Moody slammed the draw shut, seemingly frustrated at being unable to find whatever it was he was looking for. Fixing the slim, short-haired woman with both of his eyes he scowled and looked over at his Foe Glass.

"What? Oh, come off it you old coot! You can't possibly believe I'm an impostor," she exclaimed.

"Humph!" was his only response as he began to ransack a small chest in search of his quarry. After a furious couple of minutes spent searching through its contents, he pulled out a small leather pouch, stumped over to his chair and eased himself down into it.

After having worked with the old Auror on and off for over twenty years, Winifred knew when she could press him and when she ought not to. Crossing her arms, she waited as he packed his pipe with tobacco from the pouch and lit it. Unlike Hieronymus Massingbird's aromatic tobacco, Moody smoked something which smelt like it came out of a Hinkypunk's sock. She welcomed the stink, however, as Mad-Eye seemed to be relaxing as far as he was able to and that meant that she might just be able to get some information out of him.

"That's the bloody problem though, isn't it?" he said eventually.

"What's the problem?" she asked with a sigh. Moody was well known for his one-sided conversations which seemed to make no sense to anyone but himself.

"You hit the nail on the head when you said it was _'Potter's little jaunt,_ Winny," he growled. "I've got Aurors by the boatload scouring the sodding world for those bloody Horcruxes and, once again, Harry Potter delivers the goods. Not only does he go and do it, by Merlin, but he manages the impossible on his own. I admit that I'd rather be locked in my own bloody trunk for another year before sharing a hospital ward with Puddicombe, Knatchbull and Choeke but they're good, solid Aurors. What happens? _Bang!_" he roared, slapping his hand down on the surface of the desk. "They're out of the running five minutes into the mission and Potter does it on his own! To top it all off, we've got little school girls in pleated dresses running around killing Fachans! We may as well shut up shop and leave them to it, Winny; we're obviously doing no bloody good here!"

This was just about the longest speech Drinkwater had heard Mad-Eye give in all the years she had known him and she let him puff at his foul-smelling pipe for a few minutes before speaking. She knew him well enough to understand that he meant no criticism to the two Gryffindors; quite the opposite was true, in fact. It was just that he felt helpless at the seemingly random unfolding of events. For all of his careful planning on both the strategic and tactical levels, he felt that he was completely at the mercy of luck and there was no leader in the worlds of Wizards or Muggles who would care to be in such a position. She chose her words carefully before beginning to speak.

"Moody, all of your preparation isn't going to waste. The vast majority of your efforts have been concentrated on keeping the Death Eaters off balance and their eyes far from the activities of the relatively few people you have engaged in the hunt for the Horcruxes. As luck would have it your efforts have paid off and we're now in possession of one of them. We may even find the..."

"Winny, he knows," Moody interrupted quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named knows about Potter's Horcrux," he stated heavily.

"Are you quite sure?"

"Do you remember the spell Rand Loomans used to reveal his link to the Horcrux?"

"Er, let's see, it was _'Desvela Vinculos Alma'_, wasn't it?"

"Just so, Winny; it was indeed _'Desvela Vinculos Alma'_."

"So?"

He sighed.

"Damn you, Winny - think! Why would our snake-eyed friend leave a single wizard guarding a piece of his soul? A wizard I say, but in reality little more than an old man maddened with grief over the death of his family. I've nothing against Potter but do you really think he's able to take down a Dark Wizard yet? He's had some extraordinary luck when facing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, I admit, but he's just a child. Hell, Loomans was just a school teacher but he managed to land a couple of solid blows on the boy!"

"So?"

"So? So he was never there to protect the damned Horcrux, Winny! He was there to act as an intruder alarm; end of story, goodnight!"

"Are you positive, Alastor?"

"Yes. When Loomans died the link to the Horcrux was severed. There can be no doubt whatsoever that this..._disruption_...to the receptacle for a part of his soul would not have gone unnoticed. Loomans was a trap and **we...bloody...sprung...it!**"

"Then we are already exposed."

"Yes."

Winifred Drinkwater pulled at her left ear lobe. As she stared at Moody she realised that she had never seen him before as she saw him today: frightened. He was sweating profusely and he could hardly stay still in his chair. She knew that he wasn't frightened for his life; he carried potions, blades and a multitude of other devices to ensure that he wasn't taken alive. No, he was frightened of failure or rather the consequences of failure - the death or enslavement of all the witches and wizards in the country which would in turn would lead to far worse for the Muggle population.

"What is it that Bob Choeke is always saying about creeks and paddles?" she asked weakly as she sank down into the chair next to his.

----------

Ron was sitting outside the hospital wing.

He had been sitting there, trying to pluck up the courage to go in and speak his friends, ever since they had arrived back. Just the thought of doing so brought on the black rage that he fought so hard to avoid these days. He had been told in no uncertain terms by Madam Pomfrey just what consequences such an injury to his heart entailed. Although nobody was certain what the fullness of time would bring, he would have to live with the fact that his health had been dramatically weakened for the rest of his life. Given the fact that he had always been a being ruled by strong emotions this would be more difficult for him to bear than, for example, Neville Longbottom.

With uncharacteristic steel in her eye she had sought to drive home the very real possibility that if he became overly stressed or angry he might very well keel over and die. Chewing at his lips and rubbing his hands together he took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. Were it not for the thought of what lay on the other side of the door, he might very well have laughed at the memory of sitting in Madam Pomfrey's office learning breathing exercises to calm him down. _She_ had been sitting there, ramrod straight in her own chair, lecturing _him_ about relaxing. Talk about upside down!

It was there, with him shaking his head and looking miserable, that Professor McGonagall found him.

"Mr Weasley, we must stop meeting like this."

"Professor?" said Ron raising his eyebrows.

"Every time we bump into each other, Mr Weasley, you seem to look more miserable than the last time."

"That's me, Professor; the emotional weathervane for Hogwarts. Perhaps you ought to install me on the roof."

"Oh, stop wallowing in self pity, boy!" her voice cracked out. "Your friends are alive and are on the mend which is more than can be said for Bubastis Bitterman. If I'm not very much mistaken in my observations, he and Winifred Drinkwater were on the brink of marriage. How must she be feeling now? Poor, wee slip of a girl," she said whilst wringing her hands.

"I'm, er, I'm sorry, Professor McGonagall. I had no idea that they were an item. They didn't..." He trailed off.

She forced her hands to her sides and sighed.

"And I'm sorry too, Ronald; I ought not to have snapped. Might I sit with you for a moment?"

"Sure, er..." He pulled up a chair for her.

"Ronald, where are your brothers?" she asked out of nowhere.

"Well, um, Perce is in there of course. If you ask me he's enjoying every minute of it! Old Pomfrey...that is to say _Madam_ Pomfrey," he quickly corrected himself at Professor McGonagall's very pointed look, "just won't leave him alone. She's reckons he's too skinny and she's trying to feed him up. As if she'll have any more success than Mum did after all those years!"

"You may well be right, Ronald; if Poppy thinks her efforts in fattening up Percy will bear any fruit then she's in for a disappointment," she said with a smile. "What about Charlie and Bill, are they in there as well?"

"Yes, Professor McGonagall. They've been avoiding Percy for ages now, but they had to go in to hold Harry down when he first arrived. Madam Pomfrey asked them to do the same with Iain Knatchbull when she put him in than small room on his own; he was none too pleased about that! Since then they've actually started to speak to Percy, so I suppose it's not worked out too bad in the end."

"Yes, well, it's an ill wind that blows no good. Tell me, Mr Weasley, who was the young girl whom I heard laughing as I sat down?"

"Would you believe me if I said it was Tonks?" asked Ron with a wince.

"Why no, Ronald; I don't believe I should believe you if you were to tell such a blatant lie. Would it not be more accurate to say that it was your sister in there? This is despite the fact that she is scheduled to be Care of Magical Creatures with Professor Kettleburn, I might add."

"Er..."

"Never mind, we'll overlook it just this once. Well, I have just one more question for you then, Ronald."

"Yes, Professor?"

"If indeed Bill, Charlie and Ginny are in the hospital wing with Harry and Hermione, why then aren't you?"

The shocked silence stretched out for long moments until Ron muttered something inaudible.

"Excuse me, Ronald? I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that."

Ron looked up, his eyes looking directly into hers. Unshed tears shone brightly.

"I said I don't know if they want me there!" he cried out.

Minerva had been expecting any response except that one and for a moment she found it difficult to formulate a response.

"Ronald, why on earth would you think that? Seldom have I seen the bonds of friendship burn so brightly in ones so young as you three. How could you possibly imagine that they wouldn't want you at their sides? Hermione in particular will need reassurance! Though Poppy tells me she is putting a brave face on it, she is undoubtedly nursing the ridiculous notion that no man will be interested in her now that she has lost an arm. Was I wrong in thinking that you and Miss Granger were..."

"Yes, Professor!" he interrupted. "I mean, no, you weren't wrong that we're...you know," he said looking down at his feet.

"Good," she said which sounded all the more emphatic for her Scottish accent. "But come now, you have yet to answer my question: what could make you think that they do not want you at their sides?"

"I wasn't there!" he burst out. "The first time we weren't all together look what goes and happens to them! It was my fault!"

"Mr Weasley, Ronald, listen to me, "she said placing her hand on is shoulder. "None of this is your fault! Had you been there you would not have been able to do anything whatsoever to influence what happened. We overuse the word 'miracle' in my opinion, but now I can go to my grave knowing that I have been privy to one. Had it not been for the unalloyed luck that seems to have followed you and your friends around, Hermione, Harry, Jeremiah, Roberto and Iain would now all be dead! By all accounts it took either gaggles of Mountain Trolls or groups of extremely powerful witches and wizards to kill a Fachan. Hermione managed to do it all alone. It cost her an arm, yes, but it saved them all. How either you or they could ever lay the responsibility for what happened at your feet, I'll never know."

"It's that, I, well...if I'd been there I might have been able to do...something," he finished lamely.

"Humph! I thought as much. Ronald, it is all too easy to fritter away our lives on the _'might-have-beens'_ and _'could-have-dones'_. We all must all guard against this very natural, but unproductive, instinct. If we are to honour our dearly departed friends and family, we ought to do so with our efforts to continue our own lives with both energy and vigour. You could not have helped your friends and nor could you have saved your father. These things happen."

Ron closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.

"You're right," he said as he opened his eyes again. Running a hand through his hair, he looked up at her as she stood to leave. "It's just that they went away and I felt as if I'd never see them again and I very nearly didn't! I don't ever want to let them go again, but I can't do that, can I?"

"No, Ronald, you can't."

Then, for the second time in his life, the old witch touched him. Cupping his chin in her thin hand, she had raised his head enough to kiss him tenderly on the forehead.

Ron's face coloured, but it was an honest blush of embarrassment as opposed to an ugly flush of rage. Standing up and straightening his robes he moved to the door and stepped through it.

"Bless you, Ronald Weasley," she said to the empty coridoor. "No one - no Gryffindor, no Auror, not even our very own Mr Potter - has shown more courage than you. I am more proud of you than I could ever say."

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	19. A Yuletide Fire

**Chapter 19 - A Yuletide Fire**

The glowing remains of a Yule log hissed and popped under the large stone mantelpiece in the Gryffindor common room. It was Christmas Eve and a whole host of decorations festooned the ceiling and walls with red and green paper chains and baubles which, as always, had been enchanted by Professor Flitwick to move and flutter as if they were caught in a breeze. Hermione tried to imagine the other common rooms being as inviting as her own but somehow just couldn't see it. She sighed contentedly as she continued to trace lazy circles on the material of the sofa with her right hand.

As she lay stretched out in front of the dying embers, she half-dozed as her feet were gently massaged by Ron. The stump of her left arm was towards the fire in order to lessen the dull but persistent ache which persisted there in spite of the best efforts of Madam Pomfrey. Who would have thought that just a hand's breadth of healthy bone and tissue could cause such a nagging distraction? Hermione being Hermione, she had owled the Twins and asked them to smuggle to her a few Muggle books on the subject of amputations. It was not a problem which would trouble witches or wizards in the ordinary course of events as, with enough time, limbs could be re-grown. Perhaps unsurprisingly, due to the morbid nature of her request, Fred and George had at first demurred. However, after a furious exchange of letters involving smuggling the parchments to and from the Owlery via Crookshanks, the Twins had come through. Heaven help her if Harry ever found out! Poor old Hedwig had been worn to a frazzle by the end of it all.

It had taken her a long time to pick through the books - a strange occurrence for such a voracious reader as herself. It wasn't that they were overly graphic in their details, rather than the fact that by reading them she seemed to be accepting that her loss was indeed permanent. Madam Pomfrey had seemed strangely eager to eject her from the hospital wing when ordinarily the elderly healer was all for keeping her more seriously ill or injured patients under close supervision so that they couldn't interfere with the primary stages of medical treatment. But she appeared to be a little too eager to have Hermione up and about - to occupy her mind so as not to give her the opportunity to dwell on the utter failure of magical medicine to restore her lost limb.

So far she had seemed to be quite sanguine about losing her arm, but she wasn't fooling any of the older Aurors or members of staff. They knew perfectly well that the full shock had yet to set in. It was a relatively rare sight in the Muggle world to see limbless people, but not entirely unknown. A muggle would be much better placed than a witch to accept the fact that a lost limb was lost forever. To be sure Hermione was muggle born, but she had come to this world at a very young age and in her attitudes now there was little to choose between her and one born to it.

Quite often, amputees would experience sensations from lost limbs. This was dubbed 'phantom sensory experience' and could continue from as little as a few days up to the end of the person's life. In these longer term cases, the continued sensations were often attributed to a lack of acceptance on the part of the amputee to their loss. Not only had they lost a great degree of functionality of their body, but they also felt sensitive as to the poorly concealed stares from strangers and acquaintances alike.

Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall had confronted her about the permanent loss of her arm and discussed magical prosthetics. Hermione had been horrified at the prospect of having something foreign grafted onto her body and had rejected the notion outright, insisting that she was fine. They had then pointed out that her burgeoning sexuality would bring with it problems if she didn't deal with them now. The sight of these two sweet and well-meaning, but slightly embarrassed witches broaching the subject of _sexuality_ had made her giggle for the first time in what seemed like an age.

She was roused from her thoughts by Ron gently lowering her feet onto the sofa as he stood up.

"Don't stop," she pleaded, but she smiled as his lips found hers and his right hand closed, ever so gently, on what remained of her left arm.

As she put her arm around his neck and ran her fingers through his short hair, she realised that it didn't ache quite so much anymore.

----------

The instant they saw their lips meet, Harry and Ginny beat a hasty retreat from the foot of the stairs to the boys' dormitory. They had been waiting and hoping for something like this ever since Ron had first entered the hospital wing those few weeks ago. He had been beside himself with ill-placed guilt over their injuries whereas she had been determined to make it clear that she did not expect him to continue in their relationship. Both of them were idiots in their own sweet way.

As they burst into Harry's old room they were holding hands and when they realised this they looked at each other rather self-consciously before letting go. Harry took a deep breath as he looked around. It was strange how he hadn't ever noticed how the room smelt until he had left it. Over by Neville's bed there was some malodorous weed or other stinking the place out whereas Dean's section held the smell of the leather polish which he constantly used to clean his beloved football. There was a somewhat similar smell by his old bed - an aroma which made him close his eyes and smile broadly. It was nothing more than the lingering scent of his broom cleaning kit, but it made his heart soar.

"Ugh! What's that revolting smell?" complained Ginny.

"Ron's socks," Harry replied with a chuckle.

"And the...coconut...is it?"

"There's usually a bowl of dried coconut and apple slices on Neville's bedside table. He's a demon for waking up in the middle of the night and munching on a few."

Ginny raised her eyebrows at this piece of information and continued to prowl the edges of the room, seemingly fascinated with the bizarre collection of knick knacks which cluttered the various surfaces. Harry took the opportunity to indulge himself in a little vice which he hadn't done for what seemed like an age. He took three bouncing steps towards his old bed and hopped into the air. Spreading his arms and legs like a scarecrow, he flopped unceremoniously onto it.

"Woo!" he cried as he bounced up and down, feeling like a little boy.

"Harry, do you still have that map?"

"What? The Marauders' Map, you mean?"

"Yes, that's the one," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Er, I think so. Why?"

"No special reason," she replied. "Do you mind if I take a look?"

"Be my guest," he replied magnanimously.

Ginny opened his chest hesitantly, unsure of quite what she would find in there. A lifetime of living around Fred and George had taught her that curiosity did indeed kill the cat. On more than one occasion her illicit searches of her brothers' rooms had resulted in her being the butt of some practical joke or other. She was almost disappointed then when she found nothing out of the ordinary in his immense trunk. His old telescope, a selection of books, a chipped hand mirror, the fragments of his old broom, spare scrolls and quills and, of course, his neatly folded invisibility cloak were all neatly arranged and padded with endless pairs of socks. The map she found tucked into an album of some sort which she snuck a quick look at. Her heart lurched as she caught a glimpse of those precious few photographs of his parents which Harry possessed.

With the map tucked under her arm, she was now more resolved than ever to do what she had so long planned to do. Frowning as she opened the map in order to check it, she once again tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Harry's heart caught in his mouth when he saw her do this.

"_No way,"_ he thought to himself, _"I'm not going there!"_

Ginny, meanwhile, was pleased to find that she was correct in her assumption that Moody's permanent bodyguard notwithstanding, the four of them were alone in the tower. Professors Crosby and Haversham were directly outside the Fat Lady's portrait whilst another four of Mad-Eye's 'professors' were within easy hailing distance. They were probably glad that their charges were, for once, choosing to take it easy and stay in one place. As retired Aurors none of them were spring chickens and chasing youngsters all over the extensive grounds of Hogwarts was never a very popular duty.

Folding the map and placing it back in its place, she took the opportunity whilst shielded by the lid of the chest to draw her wand and ready herself. She peeked at Harry to make sure that he was in a comfortable position before raising her wand.

"_Petrificus totalis!"_ she cried.

It was a good, solid hit and Harry's arms and legs snapped to his sides. Knowing that at the very least he must be scared out of his wits, Ginny quickly jumped onto the bed and straddled him. Lowering her mouth to his ear, she kissed him on the cheek.

"Don't be scared, my love," she urged, "this isn't what it seems. It's just me wanting to talk to you without you escaping or changing the subject - I'll set you free in a moment, I promise! Harry, you were wrong about breaking up with me to protect me! Hermione went with you and she was hurt, wasn't she? Well, Ron didn't go with you but he ended up hurt as well and he was with Bill, Charlie, Percy, the Twins and two Aurors! The point is that you can't pretend anymore that staying away from me will protect me. With all the damage that my family has done to Tom Riddle and his Death Eaters we're all for the chop anyway!

"Harry, I love you and I want to spend whatever time I have with you!"

With this said she lowered her lips to his and released him from the spell. She had screwed her eyes tightly shut in anticipation of either a slap or at the very least his yells of righteous anger. His lips left hers and when after a few seconds neither of these had been forthcoming, she dared to open her eyes again. Harry was looking up at her and running his tongue over the inside of his mouth, following the line of the horrific wound he had received when fighting Rand Loomans. He had a faraway look in his eyes and didn't seem to be aware that he was also fingering the area on his left side where he almost lost his kidney. He cast a look down in the direction of the common room where Ron and Hermione were right now.

He sighed.

"You're right, Gin," he eventually said. "You always were. I was just too..."

Her lips silenced his. Behind them the crackle of the stove served only to punctuate the silence of the tower.

----------

"Don't put it too close to the fire or it won't dry naturally!" snapped Iain Knatchbull.

The big man was sitting in an old-fashioned bath chair which had been discovered somewhere in the bowels of the castle. Under the care of Madam Pomfrey he had actually regained some small sense of feeling in his legs. In time it was hoped that he would be able to stand again but walking would forever be beyond him. The fact that he might well be able to stand seemed to have saved him from the worst of his despair in those first few days. Always a bull of a man, He hadn't been able to accept the idea that he would never again have the use of his legs. Now he divided his time between a ferocious physiotherapy regimen and his current project.

"Stop nagging, Knatchbull! I do have better things to be getting on with than helping you!" Bob Choeke barked back.

He carefully laid down what looked like a freshly-varnished broomstick with two holes drilled in it next to the enormous hearth in the Fifth Common Room. The heat in the huge chamber was stifling and sweat beaded both of their brows, but the business in hand was serious enough for them to ignore it.

"Like what?"

"There's this new Auror - she's the tall brunette who arrived with the latest batch - and I reckon I'm in with a chance," he said with a huge grin.

"Oh yeah, I think I know the one. She had a white stick, didn't she?"

"Yawn! You know, we don't need Potter to take out You-Know-Who. All we need to do is have you tell him and his Death Eaters a few of your oh-so-funny jokes and if that doesn't finish them off nothing will!"

At this point Jerry Puddicombe wandered into the room with a scroll for Moody who was sitting with Lupin across the chamber and well away from the fire.

"Jerry, will you look at what this little runt has come up with? I swear I'm going to dob him in to the Ministry of Magic; there's no way on earth that this thing is legal or safe!"

Jerry laughed as he looked down at Bob's brainchild. Although it sounded like a mad idea at the time, it now looked as if the modestly named _Choeke Swift, Mark I _was almost ready. It had all started with a joke when Iain had said something about lashing a couple of broomsticks to the side of his bath chair. Lo and behold, the very next morning Bob had turned up with the rough plans for a broomstick chair to replace it with. Everyone stood around laughing for a few moments until they realised that Bob and Iain already had their heads down over the paper and were planning to do violence to the school's broom shed in the search for parts. By the afternoon the two friends were, as usual, fighting like cats and dogs over the project. Some things never changed.

"Well, look on the bright side," said Jerry with a shrug. "Put that dirty great broom chair and a fat lump like Iain together and there's no Chaser in the world who'll ever be able to see the goals, let alone score!"

He ran laughing from the hail of abuse and scraps of broomstick which they hurled at him.

----------

"Merry Christmas, Moody!" said Remus heartily.

Mad-Eye looked up sourly but his expression quickly changed when he saw the wrapped box in Lupin's hand. His magical eye had no trouble at all discerning the form of the bottle inside and he could guess that it didn't contain water. He had seen it the instant Remus had entered the room with it behind his back, looking as furtive as could be, but had assumed that it was one of the youngsters by the fire. Whereas there was a healthy respect between the two men, they had never exactly been friends. Their different personalities and temperaments meant that they often clashed over the methods acceptable in waging a war.

Living at the school had changed both of them. Remus was eating regularly and getting all the potions and medical care which he needed for the first time in as long as he could remember. He was also in regular contact with a great many people; a state of affairs not normal for an individual afflicted with lycanthropy. As a result he now looked both healthy and happy.

The changes wrought on Moody were no less profound. For the first time in decades his brand of paranoia and his philosophy of vigilance were not only tolerated, but they were very much in demand. Although he would never admit it, his previous life of isolation and fear had been beginning to wear very thin. Always waiting for an attack from behind could run even the hardiest soul down after a while. Unfortunately, the eccentric lifestyle which had been designed to protect him from his countless enemies had been singularly unsuccessful in doing so.

That scum Barty Crouch had managed to put one over on him and very nearly end the whole game in one bold stroke. This one thing more than any other still rankled him. He was a proud man and the fact that he had not only been bested by a Death Eater, but had also been instrumental in Crouch's successful impersonation of a member of the Hogwarts' faculty was a humiliation he would neither forgive nor forget. Although nobody had ever blamed him in any way, he certainly blamed himself.

Now, however, he was surrounded by people whom he actually trusted and he could sleep in his bed at night content in the knowledge that he would at least hear the approach of any enemy. Within reason he was able to eat the food and drink presented to him, secure in the knowledge that it hadn't been poisoned. Most importantly of all, though, he had a purpose in life - he was once again involved in the thick of the fight against Voldemort.

"Moody?" said an amused Remus.

"Hmm? Sorry, Lupin, I was miles away," he replied as he ripped the wrapping paper off the box. "Irish whiskey?" he said unbelievingly. "I had you pegged for a Scotch man. And it's none of your rubbish, either! A pure pot still whiskey from the Midleton distillery in Eire. Now this is a handsome gift! I'd be ashamed of not having got you anything were it not for the fact that I can see perfectly well that you already have two glasses waiting to be filled up."

"Well, it would be rude to leave to drink all that on your own, wouldn't it?" Remus answered shyly.

They admired the pale, golden liquid by holding up their glasses to the light of the roaring fire. Together they tentatively sniffed the exotic muggle whiskey before taking a small sip and savouring the complex yet subtle flavours.

The rare moment of camaraderie wasn't even spoiled when there was some sort of disturbance over by the fire involving Jerry being pelted with rubbish.

----------

"Come now, Minerva," coaxed Hieronymus Massingbird in his rich, deep voice. "It's like riding a broom; you never forget!"

"That's all very well for you to say, Hero," she answered, "but when was the last time either of us was seen astride a broomstick?"

"Point taken, my dear," he chuckled.

He was sitting atop of an uncomfortable looking stool with a violoncello between his knees. The instrument seemed eminently suited to his own stout form: the man and the instrument seemed to be moulded into one. Its wood was a rich mahogany which was all the more handsome for reflecting the flames from the fireplace around which the stools were arranged in a semicircle.

Minerva and Filius Flitwick were seated opposite him preparing their violins. An empty seat and an additional cello awaited Professor Vectra next to Hieronymus.

"Might we not warm up whilst we wait for Elizabeth?" squeaked Filius.

"I think that would be a very good idea," stated Minerva emphatically. "It has been altogether too long since I set bow to string. Would you care to lead us off in something, Filius?"

They prepared their instruments and looked to the diminutive professor for their lead. Grinning like a small boy, he set down his bow and held his violin like a mandolin. Hero's laughter boomed out as he recognised the notes that he heard and his eyes gleamed as he leant back in his chair, his own instrument being unneeded. He waited for Minerva to pick up the melody.

"A piece of seasonal frivolity, Filius?" she asked as she began to play the demanding 3rd Movement of Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 3.

The lively, jolly violin duet lifted the spirits of all those within earshot.

----------

The current Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, was renowned for burning the midnight oil. It was a rare night that he left his desk before the first traces of light stirred the birds to their dawn chorus. New arrivals at the nerve centre of magical life in Britain were watched with some amusement by the older, more experienced officials as they tried to match the Minister. It was a fool's errand as not only did they fail to do so, but they wouldn't have been noticed by him even if they had. He judged his subordinates by results and not by the number of hours they could park their arses on comfortable chairs.

Tonight he was in a curious mood. He hated wasting time more than anything else, but was forced to admit that with the vast majority of his senior staff away from the office for the Christmas holiday, he would have little chance to crack on with some important policy document or other. Determined not to waste the time he found weighing so heavily on his hands, he decided to attend to that most irksome of ministerial duties: Yuletide cards.

He recognised the importance of it, of course, but that didn't mean that he had to like it. He had left the things damnably late despite the chiding of his secretary, but with the swiftest owls available at his beck and call he still had time to complete the task. Sighing heavily, he looked down at the card sent to him by the Norwegian Minister for Magical Affairs. He rubbed the heavy, textured paper of the envelope between his fingers and admired the way the gold edging on the otherwise plain paper caught the flickering flames from the fire. He had exchanged Christmas cards with Soren Leifsson and his family for over thirty years now but had never once bothered to read the damned things.

"A waste of my time," he huffed as he tossed it into the dancing flames in the grate.

Turning back to the pile of cards which protocol demanded he both sign and include a few personal comments in, he sighed heavily.

"A damnable waste of everybody's time," he groused as his quill scratched its way over the first of them.

He continued to write at an unhurried pace for quite some time before stopping to stretch and scratch at his left armpit. This uncharacteristic gesture hopefully concealed the fact that he had surreptitiously drawn his wand in response to a niggling sensation between his shoulder blades.

Like all the best Aurors, he never tried to analyse his instincts. To do that would be to cage them and to lose his edge as a fighter. Nor did he question why he knew he was not alone in the room; he simply accepted it as a fact. As he wrote the usual pleasantries to His Excellency Heneage Ramekie of the Jamaican Embassy, his mind was racing over his possible courses of action open to him. Unfortunately, they were few.

The intruder was either an insider or, worse yet, somebody skilled enough to bypass all of the not inconsiderable security measures boasted by the Ministry of Magic. He himself was sitting at his desk, stiff from having been there for at least five hours and had a gammy leg which further served to hinder his movements. Closing his eyes he came to a decision: no matter what the consequences to him personally or professionally he would never comport himself with anything other than sang-froid. He was no blustering coward like Cornelius Fudge.

"I know you are in this room with me," he said as he calmly rose to his feet. "Show yourself that we might conclude our business."

His eyes swept the room and the slowly undulating shadows created by the fire to his left. An icy feeling of disbelief swept over him as Severus Snape stepped out from the shadows at the same time as drawing his hood back from his head. Scrimgeour's wand rose in what seemed like slow motion to point at the Death Eater.

"You were never supposed to come here!" he hissed. "This could jeopardise all of our plans!"

The sneer on the ex-Potion Master's face managed to convey his opinion of both Scrimgeour's abilities and opinions quite succinctly

"These are your instructions, Rufus," was all he said in his bored-sounding drawl as he laid a small box on the table. "You could try to argue your case with _Him_, I suppose, but we both know he is incapable of changing his mind."

He seemed to be savouring the other man's discomfort as he drew up his hood and melted back into the shadows.

"Goodbye, Rufus. I don't imagine we shall see each other again before the end. Do try to take good care of yourself," his disembodied voice mocked.

Scrimgeour's knees slowly gave out and he grabbed the back of his chair for support. A cold sweat suffused his entire body as he stared with unseeing eyes into the fire and gasped,

"I'm not ready yet! It is too soon to take this path!"

----------


	20. A Parting of Ways

**Chapter 20 - A Parting of Ways**

"_Morsmordre!"_

With this, perhaps the most terrifying of spells that any witch or wizard might hope not to hear in their lives, the Death Eaters concluded this particular mission. Their victims showed no emotion at the enormous skull and writhing snake which were reflected in their unblinking eyes as they were sightless, silenced forever by the killing curse.

Adam Makepeace, the deputy-headmaster of the local comprehensive school and his wife Yasmin, a potion maker who served the small magical community, would never see anything again.

Nor would their three-year-old son.

----------

"_Inflamare!"_ rasped an inhuman voice.

The flames produced by the innocuous spell were intended to magnify the horror of the slaughter as opposed to hiding it. The bodies of the three half-blood witches would not be destroyed by the fire, but they would be charred and distorted by the heat. As the yellow tongues began to lick up the side of the picturesque thatched cottage in the West Riding of Yorkshire, they illuminated the sneering features of the Death Eaters who had committed the atrocious murders.

Any idiot muggles who blundered across the bodies of the sisters would attribute their deaths to a tragic accident caused by their electricity cables. Wizardkind would be able to detect the residual trace of dark magic in the air.

They would know.

----------

"_Crucio!"_

In the instant before the Auror's involuntary screams were ripped from her throat, the sounds that reached the ears of the robed torturers were those of any major city. The distant hum of the traffic mingled with the occasional squeal from the children playing on the swings in the playground across the canal.

The muggle authorities would soon respond to such blood-curdling cries, of course, but as always they would arrive too late. How could such pathetic creatures, little better than cattle, possibly hope to interfere with the righteous activities of Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters? They would soon feel his boot pressing their faces down into the mud where they belonged, but only after the mail-clad fist of retribution had been visited upon the traitors who resisted the Dark Lord.

Any and all witches and wizards who failed to join his ranks would pay a heavy price.

----------

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

The driver of the Edinburgh to London express coach slowly slumped over the steering wheel after the strange green flash of light. The service wasn't terribly expensive and was therefore popular with students and pensioners. As long as you didn't mind getting up before the sun it was a good way to travel and today it was full to capacity. Most of those aboard were blissfully unaware of their impending doom as they slumbered on. A few people, however, were awake to watch with horror as their vehicle careered off the motorway to flip over time and time again until it came to rest at the bottom of a farmer's paddock.

Fully half of the passengers were killed outright and of those who were pulled from the wreckage by the emergency services, many more would not survive to see the following day.

The death toll would eventually stand at 76.

----------

Wizardkind and their Muggle brethren seldom coincided in their tastes and habits. One of the clearest examples of this fact was that for the most part they observed varying holidays and festivals. One of the few common celebrations, however, was that of New Year's Eve. Different cultures placed the date for the turning of the year on wildly different dates, but they all marked it and celebrated it. The final night of the year of 1997 would go down as a dark one in the Wizarding Annals kept by the Ministry of Magic as it would mark the beginning of the Final War.

Mad-Eye Moody, Remus Lupin, Minerva McGonagall and Hieronymus Massingbird were all gathered around a huge table which had been hastily erected in the Fifth Common Room. It was, in effect, nothing more or less than a huge Marauder's Map of mainland Britain. It obeyed the oral instructions of those around it and could act as a single huge strategic display or in quarters as a tactical-level display. There were a whole host of Moody's retired Aurors assisting in the surveillance of Death Eater attacks and the communication of the information gathered to the Ministry forces on the ground. Along the top edge of the table was a bank of what looked like old fashioned Bakelite radios, used by Moody and his Aurors to communicate their observations to both the Ministry personnel and their own.

Skulking around in the background were Harry, Hermione, Ron and Ginny. For once they were drawing no attention to themselves for fear of being ejected from the nerve centre of things by an increasingly short-tempered Mad-Eye. They kept to the shadows on either side of the great fireplace and communicated in whispers.

"Bloody Hell!" said a wide-eyed Ronald before the others shushed him. "If they had that thing when we were still at school here how come they never caught us when we were out and about at night?" he continued in a hoarse whisper.

"Ronald! I swear you'll never kiss me again until you've read _Hogwarts: a History_. It's impossible to use such devices to view the interior of the school and its grounds from its exterior. Think about it; if it were possible, how would Dumbledore ever have managed to keep You-Know-Who out of here?"

"His name is Voldemort...or Riddle," Harry interrupted absent-mindedly as he concentrated on the table and Moody.

"That is an extremely powerful magical object which would normally be housed deep in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic," she added, shooting a cross look at Harry. "Goodness knows how Moody managed to get his hands on it, but I..."

"I asked Scrimgeour for it," murmured Harry. "He said yes, but I have to do an extra public appearance with him next week."

Hermione frowned and seemed to be on the point of saying something to Harry about his interrupting her, when Ginny chipped in.

"Well how come Harry's map works when he's outside the castle? As you walk back from Hogsmeade you can make out what's happening at the edge of the school grounds."

"I hadn't thought about that," admitted Hermione. "Perhaps it's because the map was manufactured inside the school wards or that it was completed before the security was boosted for the First War."

She than noticed that Ron and Ginny were quietly laughing as they had managed to distract her from her original point.

"_Anyway_," she huffed, "the point is that..."

Yet again she was interrupted when Jerry and Bob burst into the room wearing full Auror kit.

"Ron, get your arse down to the armoury and suit up - we're going to Hogsmeade. Move it!" yelled Puddicombe.

"Not you Potter!" growled Moody who had his magical eye fixed on the young Gryffindor. "And if either of you two young ladies thinks you're going anywhere I'll personally see to it that you don't wake up 'til next week! Miss Weasley is too young and you, Miss Granger, are missing an arm."

Ron pecked Hermione on the cheek and bolted for the door which was magically locked after Bob had slammed it closed behind him. With the anti-apparation wards stronger than ever and the continued scrutiny of a score of Moody's 'professors', there was no hope for any of them. They were trapped.

"Pillock," hissed Harry with a flush of anger evident on his face. It wasn't clear whether he was referring to Ron or Moody.

----------

The sweet smell of roast flesh permeated the unnaturally still air and it wasn't the scent of a roast dinner.

Ron's heart was beating a strong, heavy tattoo in his chest as he apparated back-to-back with Bob and Jerry on the far side of the village. They formed one of the three-man parties which had apparated to each side of Hogsmeade. Moody wouldn't take any more of his Aurors away from the defence of Hogwarts in case it was a diversionary attack.

Dusk was falling in this part of Scotland, which made for a beautiful orange-hued sky and a hellish confusion of shadows under the eaves of the buildings. There was the smell of burning wood in the air but precious little in the way of smoke. Each of them could see nothing in the way of movement over their raised wands. Silence reigned.

"Hoods!" came Jerry's terse command.

They each pulled a fine cloth hood up from the napes of their necks which not only covered their heads, but also served to conceal their faces. Their matte grey robes would serve just as well as the midnight black garments of any Death Eaters in the failing light.

They were puzzled by the almost total lack of sound until they were engulfed in utter silence after having travelled but a few paces. Obviously, someone had been casting silencing spells indiscriminately. This was bad news as if they found themselves in one of these zones when they were attacked, the enemy would have the advantage of being able to cast spells at them whilst they would be unable to reply for vital seconds. In response to this new tactical factor Jerry help up his left hand and spread its fingers, sending Bob and Ron wide on his flanks. Such a move would help to ensure that all of them would not be caught at the same time by the same silencing spell and that they would be able to support each other.

They began to move slowly through the scrubby gorse towards the edge of the settlement. With the sun now below the horizon and the light failing fast there was little colour left on the Scottish moor. Yet despite the failing light, Ron couldn't help but notice the muted purple of the thistles which studded his path. A pheasant startled him as it burst from cover to take to the air, disturbed by their passing.

"Ron!" called Jerry in a low voice. "Keep your eyes on the buildings at all times. No Death Eater worth his salt would be caught out in the open."

"Right...sorry," he replied.

"Movement out on the moor at our left flank," reported Bob.

"That'll be Fuller and his team, I imagine. Those old timers have forgotten how to keep low," groused Jerry. "Right, we're going in. Remember to keep your eyes peeled as it looks as if our ears will be useless. If you have anything to communicate raise your left arm and likewise if you've seen anything point it out with your left arm. Apart from that you should be using both hands to control your wand at all times. Let's move."

Chance would have it that their team had been assigned the south of the village which was primarily a residential area. Very few Hogwarts students ever ventured there as there was precious little in the way of entertainment. The majority of the businesses were located at the north and west of the settlement where the path from Hogwarts was located. The problem with entering from the south was the higgledy-piggledy nature of the streets and houses. With the relatively short, crooked roads with their endless cottages and trees blocking their lines of sight, they were in an unfriendly environment to be sure.

Just as they started down the main street, Morgana's Folly, they stepped into yet another of the magically-silenced zones and straight into a trap. The fact that the Death Eaters had set so perfect an ambush probably saved them. To seasoned Aurors like Jerry and Bob the open windows on the upper stories of the buildings to either side of the road were more than a little suspicious given the winter weather. Puddicombe caught Ron's eye and looked significantly to the left hand window; Bob already knew what to do. Nodding sharply, Jerry bolted straight up the middle of the street and the instant he had taken to his heels, Ron and Bob scuttled sideways in a desperate attempt to clear the edge of the silence spell.

As Ron kept his head down and pumped his legs just as hard as he was able to, he was shocked to see a flash of blue light pass dangerously close to his head. It was an eerie experience to see a hex with none of the noise usually associated with producing one. As the heat he felt on his face with the passage of the bolt faded, he knew he had to clear the silenced zone soon as he was approaching the house from which it had emanated. Clods of earth hit the ground in dead silence from some catastrophic event behind him and he could actually hear their soft pitter-patter just a moment later.

"Bombarda!" he screamed, as he levelled his wand at the window. The concussion of the explosion after such a period of complete silence nearly overwhelmed his senses. Shards of glass and splinters of wood stung the top of his head before he hurled himself bodily at the door separating him from the relative safety of the house. He smashed it back against the wall and his heart was hammering as he threw himself down on the floor just as a killing curse sailed over his head.

----------

Back at Hogwarts, a quarter of the enchanted table had been turned to following the events in Hogsmeade. Harry, Ginny and Hermione had momentarily forgotten their anger at being left behind as they found themselves engrossed by the fascinating artefact. They had been able to follow the four teams of Aurors from the moment they had apparated on the edge of the village. The grey dots on the map represented their own troops whereas any enemies would show up as black.

Although the table was vastly superior to Harry's map, it did have its disadvantages. The top-down perspective failed to reveal significant features such as open windows and nor could it locate people inside warded buildings. As the vast majority of wizarding families did indeed choose to shield their homes from prying eyes, Ron's friends had only an incomplete idea of what was going on. What they could see, however, was the area of the silence spells represented as faint blue circles on the map.

"Centre on Auror Puddicombe," Mad-Eye instructed the table.

They watched in shock as the first coloured lines representing the Death Eaters' spells passed uncomfortably close to a zigzagging Jerry. As Ron and Bob charged towards their houses, the Death Eaters changed their targets and concentrated on those two instead. A purple line leading from Jerry made contact with the porch of a neighbouring property and the resulting small yellow circle seemed to destroy the blue circle representing one of the silence spells.

"Smart move," said Moody. "Puddicombe must have used an exploding potion to overload the silencing spell."

"We've lost Ron - he must be in the house!" shouted Ginny.

"Bob's also made it to his building," added Remus in a calmer tone of voice.

Harry, who already had his arm around Ginny's waist, reached out and took Hermione's hand.

"He'll be alright," he said, looking into her eyes and wishing he felt as confident as he sounded.

----------

Ron was in trouble.

The Death Eater was halfway up the stairs on a landing and was taking cover behind the heavy wooden banisters. The wall behind Ron's sofa was pockmarked with burns and craters which bore testament to the ferocity of his enemy's attack. He had poked his wand out from behind his meagre cover to try and keep the sod's head down, but to little avail.

"_Inflamare!"_ shouted his enemy.

The sofa in front of him burst into fierce flame. Ron cursed - the wizard on the stairs was obviously no beginner. He had but a few seconds to decide what he was going to do next. He could try to retrace his steps and get out of the front door, but it was a little too far away for him to want to try his luck. The other exit from the room was right under the nose of the Death Eater, at the far end of the room. No matter what he did the bastard would get him!

"Got it!" he said to himself.

----------

With no warning whatsoever a blue circle popped into existence centred on Ron's house.

Moody frowned and flicked his eyes to the other side of the street to check whether or not Puddicombe was still helping Choeke with the pair of Death Eaters lurking in the bushes in front the facing house. Sure enough, there he was shoulder to shoulder with Bob, trading a veritable barrage of hexes and curses with the scum. Turning his attention back to Ron's side of the street, he pursed his lips and leant down further as if he could extract more details from the magical map by doing so. What he was seeing made no sense whatsoever, unless...

"There they are!" he cried, stabbing the table viciously with his finger.

The black dot of a Death Eater had just materialised on the map but in the centre of the outline of the building meaning that he was on the roof. The grey dot bearing the legend _R.B. Weasley_ appeared just two seconds later.

Mad-Eye's face was almost touching the surface of the table and it bore an expression of almost maniacal glee.

----------

"_Silencio Positus!"_

The shouted hexes, the crackle of the burning sofa and the sound of his own laboured breathing all disappeared and in their place were left...nothing. Ron had thrust his wand straight up in the air and cast the one spell he could think of which would give him a fighting chance. Ordinarily, no witch or wizard in their right mind would take away their own ability to use magic by surrounding themselves in absolute silence. However, as he was trapped in a corner with no escape the least he could do was to take away his enemy's ability to hurt him.

When he was younger, he would often jump on top of Fred or George and wrap his arms and legs about them so that they couldn't draw their wands and hex him. He would hang on for dear life whilst at the same time yelling at the top of his lungs for Bill or Charlie to come and rescue him. Here the principle was the same. By casting a silencing spell, Ron had managed to take away his opponent's advantage and now he had to turn the tables on him. Shoving his wand back into its holster, he vaulted over the back of the burning sofa and pounded over to the foot of the stairs. He took them two at a time and tore the hood back over his head.

The Death Eater, meanwhile, was only just recovering from the shock of finding himself unable to continue casting his hexes. If the highly trained and vicious foot soldiers of Voldemort had one weakness, it was that they played with their victims. During the normal course of events this would ordinarily cause no problems. When faced with a determined and skilled enemy, however, they were often surprised to find that they had squandered their advantage only to find themselves on the defensive. This particular Death Eater was faced with a tall, broad shouldered maniac in Auror's robes charging headlong towards him. He awkwardly clambered to his feet and managed to scramble up the short flight of stairs to the next floor before Ron barrelled into his back.

Slamming into the solid brick wall was nothing in comparison to what was to come. Ron had been prepared for the impact and had managed to keep his feet. When the black robed figure rebounded off the wall it was to be spun around and to have the elbow of the red-head driven through his mask and into his nose. This was followed by a fearsome punch to his stomach and then, when he desperately tried to straighten up, his shoulders were grabbed in a vice-like grip. Drawing back his head, Ron drove it with all of his might into the Death Eater's face. The bizarre nature of this situation was yet again driven home by the fact that he felt both the scum's nose and mask break under his forehead, yet he couldn't hear a thing.

The next thing he knew his arms and the front of his robes were on fire. It was Ron's turn to be shocked as he slapped at the flames, desperate to extinguish them. By the time he managed to do so, the Death Eater was nowhere to be seen. His heart thumping, he whipped his head around in search of a clue as to where the tosser might have gone. It wasn't difficult. There were a series of burning drops on the wooden floor, trailed there from the vial of Burning Potion the twat must have had in his hand. His chest heaving from the exertion and the stress of it all, he followed the drops and mounted the stairs to the attic.

He was ready for some sort of ambush at the top of the stairs, but it didn't materialise. Although there were a few boxes scattered around, there was nowhere that a grown man could hide himself. Looking about, he could see that the small window in the middle of the attic which led to the roof was slightly ajar. Absentmindedly brushing at his still smouldering robes, he strode towards it. Grabbing the window in both hands, he braced his foot against the wall and pulled it out of its frame. He carefully shot his head in and out of the hole as quickly as he could, anxious not to present a tempting target for more burning potions. When nothing happened he repeated the action to cover the roof to the left, right and above his head. Again, he couldn't see anything apart from the dark grey slate tiles.

Easing himself out of the window, he carefully skirted the gable to climb up onto the main roof. There in front of him, vomiting on his hands and knees was the Death Eater. He had shed his hood and broken mask leaving his sweaty hair and blood-streaked face open to the chill evening breeze. They remained there motionless, eying each other up, neither of them seemingly willing to break the momentary lull in the violence. Both of them had their own good reasons for doing so. The tall, young man with short red hair and uncertainty on his face seemed intent on examining every inch of his enemy, as if he would be able to discern some valuable truth by doing so. The older, slimmer man with his wispy blond hair was desperately flicking his eyes about, searching for some avenue of escape. Eventually he concluded that there was none as he stood up and held his wand out, handle first, by way of signifying his surrender.

Careful not to lose his footing on the tiles, Ron moved forward with his legs straddling the apex of the roof. He was ready for the slightest twitch on the part of the Death Eater. Although he had the standard issue healing potions for Aurors, he had nothing offensive. The wizard in front of him didn't know that, however, so he held a blood replenishing potion in each hand. With any luck they'd be taken for more dangerous potions.

Just as he pocketed the vial in his left hand and reached out for the wand, the deafening roar of birds singing made them both wince. Ron would never have believed that the human face could change expression so quickly. As the silence spell he had cast fell, the bland features of the Death Eater snapped into a mask of rage and hate. They both moved.

"Ha!" cried the older man as he flipped his wand end over end to catch it by its handle. "I'll kill...argh!" he screamed as Ron, whose arms were much longer than the shorter man's, shot his left hand out. He covered the wand in the other man's hand and wrenched it viciously to the outside. He had no trouble whatsoever keeping the man bent over to his left in agony. He leant in towards his enemy's face with its grimace of pain.

"You surrendered!" he hissed. "You utter prick! You bloody surrendered and then you try to take it back? I don't think so!"

----------

"Weasley, for the love of Merlin don't back down now!" growled the old Auror.

"What's going on?" asked a fearful Ginny.

"You need to do this, Weasley; it's now or never!" he snarled as if Ron could hear him.

"Mad-Eye, please tell us what's happening," begged a tearful Hermione.

The map showed the Death Eater slowly approaching the edge of the roof with Ron maintaining the same distance between them at all times.

"Oh no!" groaned Harry as the truth dawned on him.

Hermione snatched her hand back from Harry, grabbed his shoulder and forced him to turn around to face her. There were tears in her eyes as she sobbed,

"Tell me what's happening, Harry! Is Ron okay? What does Moody mean?"

"It's Ron," he replied, clearly having trouble choosing his words. "He's...well, he's going to..."

"Young Ronald there is just about to finish his training," said Moody with a jerk of his head towards the map.

----------

Ron maintained the vice-like grip he had on the squealing turd's hand. Dropping the other potion he grabbed a handful of the black robes which he hated so much and began to push. The Death Eater desperately tried to gain some purchase on the slates, but every time that he did Ron simply twisted his wrist with all of his considerable strength. He was taller, stronger and the hatred in his eyes was a terror to behold. Just as they reached the very edge of the roof, just as the scum's heels were sliding over the precipice, he hesitated. Below him he could see Jerry and Bob standing side by side in the road looking up at him. They made no move to either stop or discourage him and nor did they utter a word. They simply watched.

"I...I surrender!" gasped the Death Eater through his pain.

Ron turned his gaze away from the two Aurors and fixed the man with a blank expression. He looked up into the darkening sky where he could see the brightest of the stars twinkling away merrily. They reminded him of Dumbledore's eyes. Dumbledore. Dad. Hermione.

"My name is Ron," he said as he leant forward, bringing their noses into contact. "Ron...**Weasley**!" he shouted as he shoved the murderer off the edge of the roof.

It was a relatively short fall to the ground, but one which ended in two things for the Death Eater: a hard patio and death.

In Ron's left hand was a long and flexible wand made of bog oak. He stared at it for a good while before dropping it over the edge after its owner.

----------

The grey dot and black dot actually overlapped when the map was unable to expand the scale any further on the quarter of the table available to it.

"Do it!" urged the grizzled old Auror.

"Moody," was all that Remus said but it carried a tone of caution as he indicated Ginny, Hermione and Harry with a slight inclination of his head.

Pursing his lips, Mad-Eye beckoned them forward with a wave of his hand.

"Look! Look at him!" he ordered. "If Ron brings him in alive, where should we put him and how many of our men would we need to guard him? If we handed him over to the Ministry just how long would it be before he was handed the keys to his own cell and was free to kill innocents again? This war is as much about logistics as it is about anything else!" he barked. Then in a gentler tone of voice he added, "Before you judge Mr. Weasley, consider this; what exactly do you think that Death Eater did to the occupants of that house?"

The three Gryffindors tightened their grips on each other as the impossibly long wait dragged on. Suddenly, to the sound of Ginny's gasp, the black dot winked out.

"Ha! Good for you, Ron; I knew you had it in you!" crowed Moody in triumph before turning his attention back to other matters.

Harry swallowed hard as he tasted bile in his throat. Hermione said nothing.

----------

By the time Ron had made his way back down to the street, Jerry was speaking to Fuller, Yearly and Woodruffe from the other Auror teams whilst Bob was searching the bodies of the two Death Eaters he and Jerry had killed. Apparently, the town was now secure.

Suddenly he felt rather faint and had the urge to sit down slap bang in the middle of the road. Instead, he forced his reluctant legs to take him over to the man he had killed. Looking down at the body he noticed that there was some blood, but not as much as he would have imagined. The man didn't look dead as much as he looked _still_.

"Make you feel better?" asked Bob as he clapped his hand on Ron's shoulder.

"Not really," he replied with a sigh.

"Didn't think so. You might kill scores of people trying to get it out of your system but it won't bring him back. Oh, don't get me wrong," he added at Ron's irritated expression. "I'm not trying to say _'killing is wrong'_ or any such moralistic claptrap. Killing anyone who wears the robes of a Death Eater is one of life's little pleasures. Before they don those robes they must first torture and kill an innocent, so you can enjoy a clean conscience when it comes to that end of things. I'm just saying that killing won't bring back your Dad...ever."

"Good application of Plan B, though," he said as he nudged the corpse with his foot.

"Plan B?" whispered Ron, whose eyes had never left the results of his handiwork.

"Plan B is what we Aurors call any cockeyed, spur of the moment plan which you use in an emergency. Well, any plan which you're left alive at the end of at any rate."

"Plan B", said Ron in a slightly stronger voice.

"Search the body and then let's get out of here; I'm hungry."

With this the little man ambled off in the direction of his fellow Aurors to see what had happened in the other parts of town.

----------


	21. Good Things Come in Small Packages

**Chapter 21 - Good Things Come in Small Packages**

Gritting his teeth, Harry was careful to keep up his end of the bargain, mindful as he was of Moody's words before he had left Hogwarts that morning.

"_Best foot forward with Scrimgeour, Potter! We've received everything we've asked so far from the Ministry of Magic and we don't want to rock that particular boat now, do we? I don't doubt for a second that they'll start to bugger us around in the future, but let's not rush that day. Be a good boy and do as Rufus says!"_

As he pushed his glasses back up on his nose after having been jostled for the umpteenth time by yet another over-zealous photographer, Harry cursed Moody and Scrimgeour equally under his breath. He was currently in a Ministry of Magic press conference which was being chaired by the almighty Minister himself. Carefully selected journalists and members of the public fed ridiculously easy questions to Scrimgeour, who in turn fed them pre-prepared answers. As he was there in his capacity as a symbol as opposed to anything else, nobody was paying much attention to the Boy-Who-Lived. It wouldn't have been too bad, then, had it not been for idiotic way in which the conference was being run.

Sitting on a raised dais in the centre of the Exceedingly Long Hall in the bowels of the Ministry were a whole host of luminaries. Besides Scrimgeour and Harry there were to be seen the ex-Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge; the current Provost Marshall of the Aurors, Bertrand Killick; renowned magical philosopher, Margarita Hampton; a personal representative for each of the Ministers of Magic from all of the European countries which were signatories to the International Magical Cooperation Pact and perhaps most interestingly for Harry, professor emeritus of Defence Against the Dark Arts, Ifor Plaice - the last person before Professor Quirrell to both hold and survive the post at Hogwarts.

Excluding Fudge and the European 'Percy Weasleys' as Harry had taken to referring to them in the privacy of his own mind, none of the other participants looked overly thrilled to be there. In the style of modern Muggle politicians Scrimgeour had opted for a more informal style of presentation, presumably to stroke the egos of the journalists, thought Harry sourly. Since his experiences at the hands of Rita Skeeter, he had rated these particular people as only one step less evil than Death Eaters. Unfortunately, there seemed to be many more of them than there were the black-robed followers of Riddle. The fact that they were not only surrounding the dais upon which they were seated, but that they were also allowed to shove their cameras and Quick Quote Quills into everybody's faces probably accounted for the less that congenial atmosphere that hung over the panellists. Harry concentrated on maintaining a neutral expression as he idly wondered on how Scrimgeour had managed to coerce the other poor sods into being here.

The Minister limped to the front of the stage where he simply had to lift a hand for near silence to immediately fall. He nodded to faces in the crowd and smiled occasionally, but everyone present could see that this type of event wasn't really his forte. Cornelius Fudge with his genial, avuncular style had been a natural with a crowd like this. Still, given that You-Know-Who now walked the earth again, the magical community both wanted and demanded a warrior instead of a bureaucrat and in Rufus Scrimgeour they had what they wanted.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I might have your attention please?" he called out with a wooden smile. "As you can all see our distinguished guests are waiting to respond to any and all points which you might care to raise. We are all at your disposal for the next two hours, so please don't worry; there will be time to answer all of your questions. Now, who would like to go first?"

At this rather unwise invitation, the throng of witches and wizards surged towards the stage, each of them screaming their questions at the tops of their lungs. Harry sighed at the prospect of a very long two hours.

----------

At the end it was more like double that. Four long excruciating hours later, the Boy-Who-Lived had removed himself to the end of the Exceedingly Long Hall and was surreptitiously massaging some sense of feeling back into his bottom. Thankful for the school robes which covered his hands and allowed him to do this, he was surprised when a voice with a lilting Welsh accent addressed him.

"Which it is a sore back that you have, Mr Potter?"

"Er, something like that, Professor Plaice," said Harry shamefacedly, well aware that he had been caught. "Sorry about that, sir; I had no idea you were behind me."

"Ha! Well, I'd be no kind of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor if I wasn't able to surprise a student now, would I?"

"I suppose not, sir."

"I'm given to understand that you're seeing rather a lot of Alastor Moody these days, Mr Potter. Is that so?"

"He's at the school every now and then, Professor Plaice, but only as a security advisor. I've never spoken to him," Harry blurted out. Nobody had mentioned this tall, imposing man to him and he wasn't sure whether or not to trust him.

"Is that so, boyo?" said Plaice with a thin smile. "Well, when next you don't see Alastor, please be sure to remind him that I have the twenty Foe Glasses which he requested and that he's to contact me to arrange delivery."

"Right...if I see him, I...I'll tell him," stuttered Harry. Quite why he was so nervous in the face of such a harmless-looking old man he didn't know. Perhaps it was the fact that his smile never seemed to reach all the way to his eyes that did it.

"Potter, with me!" barked a new voice.

Turning around, Harry saw that Scrimgeour had finally managed to detach himself from the parasites of the press and was limping towards both him and the exit at a rare old turn of speed. Meeting Professor Plaice's eyes for the briefest of moments, the Minister curled his lip and sniffed audibly.

"I'm supposed to go straight back to Hogwarts from the Atrium, Minister. At least, those were my instructions," he stated in a carefully neutral tone of voice.

"I'm well aware of that, Potter. However, you can make yourself useful by carrying Alastor's weekly intelligence package from the Ministry - I'll be damned if I'll waste a pair of Aurors to take it to him if you're here!" Taking for granted that Harry would acquiesce, the Minister swept past him and flicked his wand at the heavy oak door barring his path. At the sound of the resounding crash as it slammed into the wall, heads started to turn at the far end of the hall. Rather than risk attracting the attention of the journalists now that they had nobody better to harass, Harry scuttled off after Scrimgeour.

"Make sure you don't try to stick your nose where it doesn't belong, Mr Potter! That package is to reach Moody intact! If you try to open it, I'll be the least of your worries; Moody will have your guts for garters!"

"What makes you think I'd try to look at the contents of the package, _Minister_?" demanded Harry, who despite his best efforts to remain calm was growing angry at the older man's high-handed attitude.

Scrimgeour stopped dead in his tracks. He stood stock still for a few moments, doing nothing apart from grinding his walking stick into the ancient flagstones beneath his feet. Eventually, he turned to face Harry and his face was black with ill-repressed rage. Leaning down to put his face on the same level as the young Gryffindor's, he spat,

"Why? Well, because you are _Dumbledore's man_, Potter!"

Surprised at the venom in Scrimgeour's voice, Harry hissed back,

"Yes, I was, still am and always will be Dumbledore's man! But what other choice is there? I'd rather be known as his puppet than the mouthpiece of a would-be dictator!"

"Ha!" barked the Minister, "You think me, a dictator? Would that I were, Mr Potter; would that I were," he growled. "One thing Albus and I always saw eye to eye on was the entirely negative effect of the press on the fight against You-Know-Who. If I really were something akin to the Dark Lord do you think I would allow myself to sit through that moronic scrum?" he demanded, jerking his head back in the direction they had come. "Instead of spending what little time we have remaining to us trying to coordinate some form of effective resistance to the Death Eaters, I have to massage the egos of idiot journalists who write sensationalist drivel in order to peddle their disgusting rags! And who, pray tell, buys those idiot publications? Why, I do believe it is a broad cross-section of the wizard population of Great Britain and Northern Ireland with, of course, a healthy circulation in Eire and continental Europe.

"Rest assured, Mr Potter, that if I were anything remotely approaching what you seem to think of me then we wouldn't be standing here right now. Instead, the press would all be either closed down or under the direct control of the Ministry of Magic. Furthermore, you and your annoying little friends who do nothing else but puff out your chests and thrust your petulant, ill-informed selves at the journalists so that they might use and manipulate you and your words into forming yet more disquiet among the general population, would be safely under lock and key in Hogwarts!

"Voldemort is a past master of the art of divide and conquer, you young fool, and he is attacking us at our weakest point! Can't you see that the public are spineless, cowardly and malleable? For Merlin's sake, Potter, I may not mindlessly worship the ground you walk on as do so many others, but what I feel for you and your kind is _nothing_ compared to the contempt in which I hold the vast majority of wizardkind! You might..."

As the door at the end of the passageway opened, both Harry and Scrimgeour looked up in shock. Such was the intensity of their enmity towards each other that they had entirely forgotten where they were.

"Such matters are better discussed in private," snapped the Minister.

Grabbing Harry by the upper arm with surprising strength, he half-pulled and half-propelled him a short distance down the dank corridor to a nondescript side passage with a faded and cracked door. Muttering the password so that Harry could not hear, Scrimgeour bundled him through the opening and lit the lanterns with a single sweep of his wand. The office which was revealed by the dim glow of the candles was nearly identical to the official ministerial chamber upstairs. On second glance, it wasn't a near match so much as it was an exact copy.

Noting Harry's quiet scrutiny of his their surroundings, Scrimgeour said in a calmer voice than before, "I'll fetch that package for you, Mr Potter, and then you can be on your way."

"You said his name," observed Harry in a quiet voice. "You called him Voldemort, out in the corridor before."

The older wizard cursed silently under his breath. He had hoped that the young wretch hadn't picked up on that. Sighing, he picked up a surprisingly large and heavy box from an ornate sideboard and heaved it over to his desk with some difficulty. Harry made no move to help him, despite the fact that he had a weak leg.

He sat himself down, sighed and ran his hands through his hair before bringing them down to massage his temples. "Do you know how many witches and wizards there are in the United Kingdom, Mr Potter?" he asked.

"It's something like 50,000, isn't it?"

"That it was the at last census we conducted, but now the figure stands at a touch over 60,000."

"So?"

"So, Mr Potter, we - that is to say wizardkind - are in trouble. Whether it be by the hand of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or by the hand of Mugglekind, we are in a precarious position and could easily be tipped over the edge of a very slippery slope."

Deciding that the sooner the Minister got whatever was bothering him off his chest, the sooner he would be able to leave, Harry decided to play along. He raised his eyebrows, indicating that Scrimgeour should go on.

"Why Hogsmeade?" asked the Minister.

"Why what?" countered Harry.

"Why does it exist, boy? In the entirety of this country there is but one exclusively magical settlement and it happens to be hanging on to the apron strings of Hogwarts; the single most protected site here or possibly in the entire world."

Harry shrugged.

"Think boy! Wizardkind has only been safe, relatively speaking, for the past five hundred years and given the lifespan of the average magic user, that is no great shakes at all. What with our kind having been teetering on the brink of extinction for the vast majority of its existence, an insurance policy was seen as wise. There are enough witches and wizards in or around the vicinities of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade to propagate the species should disaster fall."

"I think you'll find that Voldemort is more than capable of attacking either of those places, Minister," noted Harry.

"True, but they were never meant to be proof against him or his kind as much as they were against the real enemy."

"And who are the real enemy, Sir?"

"Muggles, Mr Potter; they always have been and always will be our natural enemies."

"What...what are you talking about?" demanded a shocked Harry. "It's Voldemort this time around, before him it was Grindelwald and I remember Professor Binns telling us about..."

"Bah, those are mere names! Grindelwald and **Tyeminmars **never wanted to destroy wizardkind - they wanted to rule it! Admittedly they wanted only a certain section of the magical community to hold the reins of power, but not even in their sick and perverted dreams would they seek to destroy it. All dark wizards, and I assure you that this includes Voldemort, think the same: wizardkind are an über race and Muggles should be their slaves."

"You called him by his name again," observed Harry through clenched teeth.

"What?"

"I said you called him by his name again: you said Voldemort again just now like you did outside in the corridor."

"**Do not interrupt me again, boy!"** screamed the Minister, slamming his fist down on the table.

The ensuing silence stretched out as the two wizards locked gazes, neither of them willing to look away first. Scrimgeour's face was mottled with ill-repressed anger and his nostrils flared as he fought against the near overwhelming urge to lash out at the contemptuous creature standing in front of his desk. Harry's mien was no more attractive as he stood ramrod straight with his hands curled into painfully tight fists at his side. His pale face was pinched and his lips were pressed into a firm line as he glared defiantly at the hateful old man slumped in his chair.

As the seconds slowly ticked by both of them were aware of the subtle undercurrent of power in the room. It was something which only powerful witches or wizards would have been able to detect; a certain dim awareness of the presence of magic which was not unlike the first time a young child held his or her wand. For Harry, at least, it felt like the most gentle of breezes. As yet more time passed and their anger ebbed, the sensation faded. Neither of them chose to lower their gaze, however.

"I...apologise, Potter. That was uncalled for and I regret it," Scrimgeour ground out from between his clenched teeth. "Won't you please sit down? There is but one more thing which I would say and then you can take your leave."

Harry was on the very edge of telling the Minister where to go, but managed to pull himself back in time. It must have been killing Scrimgeour to act in such a conciliatory manner and he was curious to see why he was going to such Herculean lengths to win his ear. Silently he took the single chair in front of the desk.

"As I was saying before, our worst enemy is not any one dark wizard but rather Muggles in general. The reason Hogsmeade was founded was nothing more than the desire of our kind for peace; a state which was ever denied them whilst they lived amongst the uneducated, ungrateful and suspicious farmers and sheep herders of medieval times. Well, times have changed and so have the professions, but I am very sorry to say that the peasants have not.

"You mentioned Professor Binns earlier, Mr Potter. Tell me, did he ever touch on the infamous Witchfinder General Mathew Hopkins? By the time his church-backed campaign of terror against witches had run its course, over 5,000 women lay dead. If they were lucky they were merely drowned whereas if they were not their confessions were forced from them by torture. After that agreeable experience they could look forward to being burnt alive at the stake. Just how many witches do you know who would allow themselves to be captured and either drowned or burnt, Mr Potter?"

"Not many, I suppose," answered Harry, feeling foolish. He knew it wasn't much of an answer.

"Try none at all, Potter. This dark chapter in the history of our kind is almost comedic due to the fact that as far as we are aware not a single witch was even exposed, let alone captured. All of those poor, unfortunate women were Muggles whose only crime was to try to alleviate the suffering of the ill or injured at a time when the church maintained that such maladies were God-sent and should only, therefore, be cured through prayer. The agents of organised religion suffered nothing in the way of hedge-medicine, Mr Potter, and stamped down hard wherever they found it."

"But you said yourself that they didn't manage to take any real witches, sir. Would it be any different today?"

"Merlin's Beard! How can you ask that? There are 1,000 Muggles for every one of us and today they're not carrying pitchforks or burning torches! Have you forgotten what a single Muggle weapon managed to do at William Weasley's wedding? If we can see them coming, we can so very easily defeat their weapons. However, if they surprise us then we are, of course, vulnerable. There is also the fact that safety comes in numbers. How would you like to live in an entirely segregated society, never once able to wander freely outside the relatively small areas which we can magically ward? What if we become virtual prisoners in our own homes, afraid to go out for fear that the Muggles have developed a method to identify us? Their track record on singling out distinct groups within society and exterminating them is hardly encouraging, boy."

"You said that Voldemort wanted to control wizardkind as opposed to destroy them. With his random attacks on them isn't it possible that they might begin to suspect something?" asked Harry.

"It is unlikely in the short term, but ever more likely as time goes by," admitted Scrimgeour.

"Then why does he do it?"

"Perhaps to distract us from his activities; to divert our attention away from him at a time when he is making a particularly important move? We simply don't know and that brings me to my point: at a time when we should all be working in concert against You-Know-Who and his cohorts, we are failing spectacularly to do just that. Think about it, Harry! If it were the Death Eaters on their own against the rest of society they wouldn't stand a chance. Unfortunately though, that is not quite the case now, is it? Rather, it is the Order against the Death Eaters and the Ministry; it is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named against the Order, the Ministry and the public at large; it is the Ministry against the Order, the Death Eaters and the public and last but by no means least we have the idiot public against absolutely everybody else be they friend or foe!

"The key to all this is unity, don't you see? It should be a simple case of _us_ against _them_. But no, so very few people are capable of putting aside their own wants and needs for the good of society as a whole. So let's have a respected pureblood family such as the Weasleys extolling the virtues of those mistrustful, barbaric muggles, why don't we? Should we not also encourage them to appear in the press, publicly thumbing their noses at the Ministry and its efforts and actively undermining what little respect and cooperation we garner from the public? Come to think of it, why doesn't everybody just do their own thing whilst Voldemort skulks around in the background cherry-picking what he wants and destroying or killing what he doesn't?"

At the very first mention of the Weasleys, Harry's blood had begun to boil. Just when the faintest inkling of some small measure of sympathy for Scrimgeour's passionate views had been forming, it was suddenly throttled by the rage he felt at the slightest criticism of his only family. Slipping his wand into his hand, he looked straight into the Minister's eye.

"You said Voldemort again..._Rufus_. That's three times now. What's changed that you dare speak his name? Are you best friends or what?"

Instead of the fight he had been sure he would have provoked with such a comment, Harry was surprised to see no other reaction than the blood drain from the older wizard's face. Slowly pushing himself to his feet, Scrimgeour pulled the heavy box towards him and opened it. A faint, silvery glow immediately filled the room. His view being blocked by the lid, Harry eased his way around the side of the desk, careful not to take his eyes off Scrimgeour's hands lest they reach for his wand. The Minister, however, was staring intently at the contents of the box and did not so much as blink.

Clearing the side of the desk, Harry gasped as he finally set eyes on the source of the light: it was a Pensieve.

It was Dumbledore's Pensieve.

----------

"Potter? Potter, turn around for a moment," said a hard voice. It took Harry a moment to recognise it as belonging to Scrimgeour.

He heard the instructions as though through a long tunnel, yet made no move to obey. The very instant he had laid eyes on the Pensieve, a whole flood of memories had washed over him; overwhelming his senses and freezing him in place. In his mind's eye he saw Dumbledore's office as it had been the time he had accidentally fallen into one of the Headmaster's memories. He relived a faint memory of the flash of guilt when faced with the kindly old face as he stammered his apology and excuses. Remembering Dumbledore's amused response, he once again felt the mixture of love and hatred that he often felt when he had been face to face with the elderly wizard.

He blinked his green eyes and fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

Moving up behind Harry, Scrimgeour lightly placed his right hand on the back of his neck. Had anyone entered the room at that point, just for the very briefest of moments it would have seemed as if he were comforting the crying boy. However, that was not the case. He took a good handful of Harry's hair and viciously wrenched his head backwards. Such was the shock and the terrible pain that Harry only managed a slight gasp. By instinct he immediately pulled forward against Scrimgeour's hand in an attempt to break his hold. Unfortunately for him, this was just what the more experienced wizard had hoped and planned for. Driving his weight behind the young Gryffindor's head, he managed to add to the speed and direction of Harry's attempted escape. The result was that his head made contact with the surface of the Pensieve and that he disappeared with a flash.

Hastily snatching his hand back for fear of being sucked in after the boy, Scrimgeour collapsed into his chair. It had almost been too much for him to bear and his heart was pounding in his chest. Had he not been able to manoeuvre Potter into Snape's carefully laid trap, all would have been lost. And now, even though the little wretch was very probably undergoing the single worst experience of his life, the Minister still couldn't help but worry. What if Snape was wrong in asserting that they would finally gain control of the boy? What if the insufferable urchin returned bent on exacting revenge? Imagine the headlines if the Minister of Magic was forced to fight, capture or otherwise harm a hair on the wretch's head: the press would have a field day and for once they would be entirely justified in doing so.

"The die is cast," he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

He would just have to wait and see how events unfolded. Never would he have thought that the day would come when he envied Severus his position, but at this moment in time he would have given all the gold in Gringotts to have been anywhere else than in this office. Standing up, he straightened his clothing and summoned his silver-topped walking stick from the other side of the room. When Potter did return, whatever frame of mind he was in, he would find a composed and steely Minister of Magic waiting for him. The minutes ticked by as Scrimgeour's gaze, fixed on the surface of the Pensieve, never wavered.

Eventually, the silvery light began to flicker and the whirls and eddies on its surface grew more agitated. With nothing more than a silent flash of blindingly bright light, Harry reappeared and staggered backwards from the desk. Scrimgeour relaxed when he saw that Potter did not have his wand in his hand. Instead, he was holding on to the mantelpiece above the fire as he gasped and choked. On his pale face was such a look of horror and incomprehension that the older wizard almost winced at the memory of how his own _conversion_ had been for him. Still, there was no room for either sympathy or understanding. Straightening his back, he once again adopted the poise necessary for the Minister of Magic.

"Do you understand now, Mr Potter?" he rasped.

The beads of sweat falling from his forehead, Harry turned his head in a fit of violent jerks to face Scrimgeour. For a moment he said nothing and the room was filled with the sound of his ragged breathing and the hiss as his drops of sweat quickly evaporated on the hot hearth stone.

"Yes, Minister; I think I do."

"Good, then get back to Hogwarts and see to it that you don't mention this to anyone," he said with a rising sense of exultation.

"As you wish, sir," replied Harry meekly.

----------


	22. Repercussions

**Chapter 22 - Repercussions**

"**Ronald Weasley!"**

Jerry Puddicombe grinned as Ron nearly jumped out of his boots with fright.

"You stay right where you are and don't dare to try and escape. I'll be right down and I expect to see you there waiting for me!" shrilled a voice from somewhere above their heads.

Looking up to a landing three stories above them in the tower serving as Moody's headquarters, Jerry and Ron had no difficulty whatsoever locating the source of the loud, indignant voice. Hermione was leaning out perilously far from the banister seeing as she had only one arm with which to hold on to it. With her hair worn loose as she ordinarily did these days, she looked more like the Hermione of old than she had done in a long time. Ron smiled as he looked up at the wild mane of brown hair which, truth be told, was a lot less bushy now than it had been when they had first met. The smile quickly faded, however, as he realised that he hadn't yet spent any time alone with her since the mission to Hogsmeade in which he had deliberately killed a Death Eater: a moment which she had witnessed courtesy of Mad-Eye Moody. Had he known Jerry, Bob and himself were being spied upon by Lupin, McGonagall, Massingbird and just about everybody else within a fifty-mile radius then he would have...well, he still would have killed the scum but would have done so inside where Hermione wouldn't have been able to see it.

It had only been a few days ago but by volunteering for every odd job that needed doing he had managed to avoid the conversation it seemed they were about to have: the one where Hermione dumped him. Sighing heavily, he was brought back to earth when Jerry clapped a large hand onto his shoulder and with a sympathetic squeeze and a wink beat a hasty retreat. Ron was left waiting at the foot of the stairs listening to the fast approaching footsteps of his soon to be ex-girlfriend. Straightening up his Auror robes, he ran a hand through his slightly longer hair and awaited the worst.

He was beginning to understand why Bob Choeke hated Moody as much as he did.

----------

At exactly the same time as Ron found himself cursing Mad-Eye's very existence, Harry was doing exactly the same thing with the sole difference being the target of his ire: himself. He had just tumbled from the enormous fireplace of the Fifth Common Room and was on his hands and knees, swallowing hard in his attempt not to vomit again. Just moments before he had been in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, grinding his teeth at the injustice of being forced to use the Floo Network due to increased security around the oh-so-precious Chosen One.

This was without a doubt one of the worst days of his life.

Desperately trying not to think of what had happened inside Dumbledore's Pensieve, he instead went over the subsequent events in his mind. The Minister himself had sat Harry down in a chair and pushed his head between his knees. Then he had limped over to a cabinet which opened to reveal a number of gleaming crystal decanters where he had chosen one containing a rich, amber liquid and had poured out two snifters. Absentmindedly thrusting one of the glasses at Harry, he emptied his own between two steps. He had then returned to the drinks cabinet where he stood with his back to Harry, apparently confident that he was in no danger from the young wizard.

"Potter," he said quietly.

"Yes, sir?" Harry had replied weakly, anxious to be on his way.

"It was..._difficult_...for me too. Try not to dwell on it," he murmured.

So shocked was he by these awkward words of consolation that he actually looked up. Instead of being met by the Minister's usual flinty glare, however, he was instead presented with an altogether different visage: one of doubt.

"Be on your way," said the older man, dismissing Harry with a curt nod of his head.

When the door to his office closed and he was once again on his own, he had crossed the floor to take up Harry's untouched glass of brandy and had swallowed that too.

----------

"Ronald, you've been avoiding me all week and don't you dare try to deny it!"

Ron just shrugged his shoulders and looked down at his feet by way of reply. Now that the axe was about to fall he found that he just wanted it to be over as soon as possible. He had accepted the inevitable and losing Hermione as his lot in life. It was amazing that she had ever actually seen anything in him at all and that she had wanted to be with him. Taking a deep breath against the rising tide of bitterness which was welling up within his chest, he raised his red-rimmed eyes to meet Hermione's and forced a smile.

"It's okay, Hermione," he said.

"What do you mean, _'It's okay'_, Ronald? It's very far from being okay, I assure you!" she huffed with a dark expression on her pretty face.

"I know, Hermione and that's what I mean. I know that you don't want to be..._can't be_...with a killer and I understand that. You're going to say that it's over between us and that's fine - I completely understand." With this said he looked down at his feet again and drew another deep breath. This one was juddery, however, and he felt nowhere near as calm as the tone of his voice suggested.

"What are you...is that what you...you couldn't possibly be..." Hermione's stammered reply ground to a halt as she saw Ron grimace as he rubbed at his chest. "Ron, are you feeling okay? We can go to the hospital wing if you want and see Madam Pomfrey and she'll…"

"I feel absolutely fine, Hermione. Really, there's nothing to worry about at all!" Ron said brightly, but with a miserable expression which gave the lie to his words.

Hermione Granger may well have been one of the brightest witches of her age as Sirius had once described her, but this was only true when it came to matters academic. With affairs of the heart she was capable of being remarkably dense on occasion and she stood there looking up at Ron with a puzzled look on her face for several moments before she finally grasped the situation. Surely the great oaf couldn't possibly be entertaining the notion that she wanted to end their relationship, could he? He couldn't really think her capable of throwing away their love after all he had done to help her with her horrific injuries?

She felt a hot flush claim her face as her anger rose in response to the idiocy of the man standing in front of her. How dare he? How dare he be capable of thinking her capable of such a betrayal? Her own breathing speeded up to match that of Ron's and she was prepared to give him exactly what he was expecting until she caught sight of his face. Besides looking as if he were about to keel over, he looked like…Ron.

She looked at his face as he in turn avoided looking at hers and remembered that this was the little boy she had met those few short years ago. He wasn't perfect by any means, but then nor was he very far from it in her eyes. Admittedly, he was prone to be jealous of his brothers and of Harry as he constantly had to live in their shadows. Despite this, however, he had managed to put it aside apart from on a couple of _very_ memorable occasions. Recently, after having developed his unlikely friendship with Hieronymus Massingbird, he seemed to be a lot more relaxed about life and his place in it. The older man seemed to be capable of providing Ron with at least some sense of perspective.

As she continued to stand there contemplating the miserable redhead in front of her, other thoughts flitted through her mind. She remembered instances of Ron's legendary stubbornness, his unrivalled capacity for anger and his not inconsiderable laziness. These memories, though, were quickly displaced by all the good that these characteristics of his brought to him and those who were his friends. His stubbornness ensured that he would never back away from supporting his friends, no matter how hopeless the situation might seem to be whilst his anger did make him a force to be reckoned with. His laziness seemed to be almost entirely absent these days and Hermione wasn't sure that it was for the best. That side to him had made him seem more human and less dangerous than she now knew him to be.

She sighed as she looked at the close-cropped hair on the top of his head. All of these thoughts had passed by in a very short time but she knew what she needed to do. Standing up on her tiptoes she darted under his face and kissed him gently on his lips.

"I still love you, Ron," she whispered, taking his hand in hers.

"I didn't think…" he began with a look of hope on his face before she interrupted him.

"But what you did was…well, it…it wasn't you! The Ron I've known all these years has changed and it's strange to see what he's become," she finished with a slight frown.

"Hermione, I can't say I'm sorry for having killed that Death Eater and I wouldn't lie to you by saying that I was. Iain and Bob tried to help me by giving me a whole list of excuses to use against you, but none of them would be the truth. I killed that bastard because he was a Death Eater - it's as simple as that and there are no other reasons. He was a bad man who'd killed in the past and would kill again in the future."

"Ron…"

"Wait a second, love," he said, resisting the urge to reach out and pull her into a hug. "You have to know that if I ever get the opportunity again I'll do exactly the same…again. You deserve the truth, Hermione," he said with a shrug. "Can we still be together with you knowing that I'm a killer?"

Looking up at Ron with unshed tears in her chocolate brown eyes, Hermione hesitated before speaking.

"Ron, I..."

Once more she was interrupted but this time it wasn't Ron who was to blame. The door to their right had been flung into the wall, creating a crash loud enough to disturb a whole host of grumbling portraits. Ron and Hermione both whirled to face the potential threat with their wands drawn but gasped and lowered their arms when they saw Harry stagger through. His pale face was mottled with red patches and dripping with sweat and his robes were liberally smeared in what appeared to be soot and vomit. Somewhere along the way he'd lost his glasses but this didn't prevent him from doing something completely unexpected.

He whipped up his wand and pointed it at them.

----------

So disturbed had he been by the events in the Ministry of Magic that he had forgotten to perform the usual sticking charm which he used to secure his glasses when he travelled by the Floo network. Therefore, just to add insult to injury, he now had to grope his way along the corridors of this unfamiliar tower by memory, desperately seeking a quiet corner into which he could sink and then lick his wounds. However, despite the fact that all he wanted to do was find himself in Ginny's arms and cry himself to sleep, he knew that it wasn't an option. Part of what had happened to him inside Dumbledore's Pensieve was powerful magic which prevented the target from revealing the merest hint of what he or she had witnessed. As with most such spells, if the truth was forcibly extracted then the consequences for the secret holder were dire. At best the lucky few could hope for a quick death whereas the majority would face a deep and permanent psychosis - an eternal nightmare from which they could never hope to escape.

It was with these miserable thoughts in his mind and fighting back the tears and waves of nausea which threatened to overcome him that he stumbled over the hem of his robes as he reached the door, inadvertently slamming it hard into the wall. He was shocked to see two blurry figures, one of which was tall and clothed in dark robes, jump in shock and spin around to raise their arms in his direction. Suddenly delighted to have found somebody to vent his spleen on, Harry responded in kind and raised his own wand.

"_Expelliarmus!"_ he roared.

"_Protego!"_ yelled a man's voice at the same time.

"Harry!" squealed a third, familiar voice.

"Hermione, what're you…?"

His voice trailed of as he edged forward, the soft blur came into some sort of focus and he found himself pointing his wand at his two best friends. Ron still had a firm hold on his wand and his shielding spell had successfully stopped Harry's disarming spell, but the sheer force of it had staggered him back into the opposite wall of the passage. After a moment of shocked silence they all lowered their wands and Hermione helped pull a bewildered Ron upright.

"Harry! What happened to you?" she asked gently.

"Never mind that, Hermione! What the bloody hell d'you think you're playing at Harry?" he demanded.

By the look of their bloodshot eyes and heavy breathing Harry could see that they'd had yet another of their famous 'discussions', but judging by the fact that they'd been so close to each other before the fireworks started everything seemed to be fine once again.

"Nothing," he sighed by way of reply to Ron.

"Nothing? Nothing! I don't call trying to blow your friends to smithereens nothing, you arse!"

For a moment it looked as if Ron was about to fly off the handle. Fortunately, and much to Harry's surprise, his friend's tirade was forestalled by help from an unexpected, though welcome, quarter. After having helped Ron to regain his feet, Hermione had failed to let go of his hand. Presently she brought it up to Ron's cheek and looked directly and unflinchingly into his eyes. For just a moment he seemed inclined to ignore her silent message, but just for a moment. As she slid her hand back down to be clasped again in his, Ron slowly let out one of his calming breaths.

"Are we okay?" he asked quietly.

"For now," she answered cryptically with a small smile.

These light touches, intimate glances and quiet questions clued Harry in as to what had been going on. While Ron hadn't come out and said just what was on his mind, it had been fairly obvious to Harry and Ginny that he was afraid for his relationship with Hermione. He held that to be the most important thing in his life and he had never been very good at hiding his feelings when it came to her.

Harry sighed and laughed ruefully.

"What's so funny?" demanded Ron, still prepared to tear a strip off Harry.

"Nothing," replied Harry with a single sake of his head. Truth be told he was jealous of them and jealous of the time they would have together; a time he now knew he would never have with Ginny.

"Killing seems to be so important, don't you think?" he said, his voice thick with emotion.

_He was back in the Pensieve, laid out on the ground and desperately trying to back away from the terrifying figure which pursued him relentlessly. A figure garbed in the mantle of death which was trying to make him think and believe things which he knew weren't true. His shoulder blades and his heels dug into the damp loam but they couldn't propel him away fast enough._

"Harry?" whispered Hermione, sensing that something was very wrong.

"If you're a good guy, you don't kill anyone," he continued, "but if you're a bad guy you do. Oh, an Auror might be forced into killing a Death Eater, but only if he or she has no other choice but even then he feels distraught by the senseless waste. Isn't that right, Ron?"

_He watched in horror as the robed figure raised his wand and aimed it. There was but the briefest glimpse of the dreaded green flash before the black mantle of death erased every sense leaving behind it…nothing._

His two friends looked down at him as he squatted against the dank wall of that strange tower and felt the hairs on the backs of their necks rise. Something was wrong with Harry. He looked as if he had been in some sort of fight, but that didn't account for the sense they had that he had _changed_. It was as if they were seeing him just after the death of Sirius, when his grief had been at its worst, at its most raw.

"In the few Muggle films I saw when I was young the sheriff sometimes even shot the villain in the shoulder.

"Sheriff?" whispered Ron.

"A sheriff is a type of Muggle Auror, Ron. Don't interrupt!" hissed Hermione.

"Imagine that!" continued Harry. "Imagine being able to win without even having to kill! Well, when I first found out about Peter Pettigrew you can rest assured that I wanted to kill him. Hell, you were there in the Shrieking Shack when I stopped Sirius and Lupin killing him. I wasn't trying to save him, though. I wanted him to **suffer**!" he shouted.

_The veil stood isolated in the centre of the Death Chamber, mocking him with its very presence. Behind him Harry could hear the faint though persistent footfall of his nemesis. The skin between his shoulder blades itched but he couldn't turn away from the hypnotic surface of the portal and the peace it promised._

Ron and Hermione stood stock still, both shocked by Harry's mood swings and unwilling to interrupt him.

"Then Dumbledore showed me the Gaunts in his Pensieve. Remember how I told you about how awful they were? Still, I felt pity for them and their position; especially for Lord Voldemort's mother. She wasn't as bad as her father or brother…not by a long chalk. I remember thinking that I might have turned out like them if I had stayed much longer with the Dursleys. Perhaps that was part of the reason why Dumbledore showed me that particular memory; he wanted me to be more understanding of them, of Malfoy, of Pettigrew.

"I hated him less after that, I think, but I'd still kill him given half the chance. You should have seen him simpering over the Dark Lord in the graveyard of Little Hangleton, the prick! He was trying to _worm_ his way back into the fold, desperately aware of the fact that he no friends left in the world and nowhere to go. His scabby hands weren't fit to hold the…

_Again he was back in the Pensieve but this time he was facing a different adversary. The snarling face of Severus Snape was just inches from his own, his mien conveying the visceral hatred he felt for Harry._

"_You've been where nobody else in the world has been, Potter; not even the Dark Lord: my memories!"_

"So many people have given up so much to fight Him. I mean, look at Professor S…it doesn't matter. I'm glad you two are okay now. Hang on to each other if you want to survive. Ron, tell Ginny I'll catch up with her tomorrow, maybe."

As he trudged off down the dark passageway and his footsteps grew fainter, he left behind him his two dumbfounded friends.

"What the bloody hell was that?" asked Ron incredulously. "He's mental! Whatever happened to him this time has sent him right around the bend. Let's go tell McGonagall; she'll take care of this!"

"No, Ron, not this time; I think it will be us who take care of things on this occasion," she stated firmly as she watched Harry disappear into the gloom. "But to do that we'll need information. He gave some things away but not everything. Come on!" she cried as she dragged him in the opposite direction to their friend.

"What? Hermione, where are we going?"

The cool dampness of the tower soon erased all trace of heir ever having been there.

----------


	23. Witch Hunt

**Chapter 23 - Witch Hunt**

"Hermione, did you want to see me?"

Hermione snatched a quick breath and looked around, momentarily disoriented. Although she was seated at her writing desk, looking out over the rain drenched castle and its grounds with unseeing eyes she had in fact been miles away, mulling over the same problem as always: Harry. It was the first week of February and the weather in Scotland was foul to say the least. The sky was a permanent, uniform grey and it brought nothing except freezing rain or hail to the rolling moors and soaring mountains. As she sat there gazing at Ginny, Hermione tried to cast her mind back to a time when this hadn't been the case: tried and failed.

It was Saturday morning and both the girls were dressed almost identically; walking boots, jeans and thick jumpers were the order of the day in such weather. As was habitual in Hogwarts there was a fire crackling away in the hearth of Hermione's room, courtesy no doubt of the house elves. It offered nothing in the way of warmth, however, as the two friends gazed into each other's faces. Ginny's looked tired and wan and she brought with her a defeated air. Time and time again she had proved herself to be resilient against all that Voldemort and his Death Eaters could throw at her family. Unfortunately, it seemed as if Harry's growing distance from both her and his friends was her Achilles heel.

Ginny was not alone in her confusion. Hermione had never carried anything in the way of puppy fat, but now she had now gone beyond slim and was bordering on skinny. Too many missed meals and sleepless nights spent fretting about Ron and Harry had taken their toll on the young Gryffindor. Her face was no longer elfin, but was instead pinched. Ginny thought that her friend's nose and forehead were now pronounced to the point where she looked deformed. Making a mental note to talk her mother into bullying Hermione to eat more, Ginny finally entered the room to sit on the single old sofa by the fire.

"Cat got your tongue?" she murmured as she drew up her knees to hug them into herself.

"No, Ron snatched it from under the cat's nose ages ago," joked Hermione tiredly as she moved to sit next to her friend.

"Ugh!" protested Ginny faintly, but her heart wasn't in it as Ron and Hermione were now an established fact.

Again silence fell between them and was emphasised by the patter of the rain against the window and the crackle of the fire. Hermione hadn't answered Ginny's first question, but it was true; she had indeed sent a message asking her friend to come here. Now that she was here, however, Hermione didn't quite know how to broach the subject with her.

"_By the way, Ron and I think that your boyfriend's been possessed by You-Know-Who!"_ didn't seem to be the wisest course of action.

Not that it was quite as dramatic as that. Had the arm of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named grown so long as to successfully attack Harry whilst he was surrounded by witnesses in the Ministry of Magic, the war would already have been lost. It was more likely that Harry had fallen prey to some plan to influence or control him by agent or agents unknown within the Ministry taking advantage of his presence at the press conference. Or as Ron had succinctly put it,

"_Harry was nobbled by that prick Scrimgeour!"_

Again this was unlikely as, if the Minister himself was working for the enemy, then they were all lost. It was safer to assume, Hermione mused, that Rufus Scrimgeour was working with them, but at the same time jockeying to come out of the war with even greater powers than he had now. She sighed. Ginny sat still and unmoving at her side looking as miserable as could be and she had yet to learn of Ron's and Hermione's suspicions.

"Hermione?" said Ginny so quietly as to be almost inaudible.

"What is it?" asked Hermione, taking the opportunity to slip her arm around her friend's shoulders.

"Do you think I'm a coward?" whispered Ginny.

"Wha…what?" spluttered Hermione. Of all the things Ginny might have said, this was perhaps the most unexpected.

"Do you, Ron and Harry think that I'm a coward, that I'll no use when the time comes to fight?"

"Of course we don't! What on earth gave you that ludicrous idea?"

"Oh, nothing much!" wailed Ginny, shaking Hermione's arm off and turning to face her. "Maybe it's just the fact that none of you talk to me anymore! None of you answer the notes I manage to smuggle out past Moody's Aurors and when I see Harry at the weekends he tries to avoid looking at me and leaves the room without having uttered two words! We were just getting close again and now he's frozen me out for a second time!" Having said this, she broke down and buried her face in her hands. She started to cry, her small frame shaking with the sobs that wracked her body.

Hermione was flabbergasted. She pulled an unresisting Ginny into a one-armed embrace and as she uttered soothing sounds to her, tried to fathom out what was going on. The answer wasn't long in dawning on her. Many of the conversations between the two friends had centred on the fact that, being both the baby of the family and the only girl, Ginny had often felt left out. Her two eldest brothers, for example, never having spent much time with her as an adult were little more than friendly strangers. Ginny had always tried to hide the fact that this sense of isolation wounded her more than anything else, but in Hermione first and later on in Harry she had found confidantes in whom she could share these feelings. Now these two most trusted people were, for entirely different reasons, pushing her away.

"Ginny, how on earth could you possibly think that people see you as some sort of coward? After all, what you've seen and done outweighs all but the most experienced of Auror's contributions to the fight against You-Know-Who."

"Tom," sniffed Ginny as she wiped at her face with the sleeves of her jumper. "Harry makes me call him Tom," she clarified in response to her friend's puzzled expression. "And that's the perfect example of what I'm talking about, Hermione; I just can't bring myself to say his name! Even after what he did to me when he possessed me I'm still not strong enough or brave enough to defy him like you, Harry and Ron all do!"

"Ginny, I…"

"I'm sorry!" cried Ginny as she broke down into fresh rounds of tears.

"For Merlin's sake!" huffed Hermione, determined to nip this nonsense in the bud. A little lesson followed by the truth was the order of the day, she decided. Awkwardly pushing Ginny back with her right arm she only hesitated slightly before fetching her friend a stinging slap across the cheek.

"_Ow!"_

"Well, you deserved it!" she told a shocked Ginny. "How could you possibly believe that we'd treat you that way? Listen to me very carefully, Ginevra Weasley; this situation has nothing to do with you and everything to do with Harry. Why does he do it?"

"Why does he do what?" Ginny replied grouchily.

"Why does Harry fight You-Know-Who?"

"What? Well, er…I suppose it's because he has to. The prophecy says…"

"The prophecy is a load of bollocks and you know it!" Hermione countered heatedly.

"Hermione! What's wrong with you? First you slap me and now you're swearing like Ron. If I didn't know better I'd say you were under the Imperius…" She trailed off and looked at her friend through eyes wide open with revelation.

"We don't know for sure," said Hermione rapidly, anxious to forestall any rash reaction on the part of her friend. "We're positive that something happened to him at the Ministry of Magic press conference he attended in order to pay Scrimgeour for Moody's larger version of the Marauders' Map, but we don't quite know what. If it had been the Imperius Curse then Harry would have been able to throw it off by now. It's by far the more likely eventuality that he was either tricked or forced into taking a potion."

She stopped her rapid fire explanation in order to gauge Ginny's response. She had been expecting her friend to fly off the handle, but was instead faced with a mask of cold fury. Although her eyes were still red-rimmed, Ginny looked as if she were ready to haul back and punch somebody in the face.

"I'm sick of this!" she hissed. "I'm sick of being kept in the dark and treated like a child by absolutely everybody! Do you know that you're behaving in exactly the same way as Dumbledore used to? You and Ron are deciding who gets to know what and when. You're manipulating the very people you call your friends!"

If she had expected Hermione to hang her head in shame at this not inaccurate observation then she was disappointed. Instead, her friend stood up and calmly walked over to the chair in front of her writing desk. She sat down and put her rightt hand up to cover the stump of her left arm: the ache had yet to disappear entirely.

"Dumbledore was right to keep some of the information he did from us, but not all," Hermione stated with conviction. "If he had given us too much information, it could have been tortured out of us had we been captured. Likewise, had he immediately told Harry the truth about his parents or the suspicions he harboured about Sirius's guilt, how do you think he would have reacted? Harry would have charged off and confronted…_Tom_…before he was ready and he would have lost! I don't agree with all of Dumbledore's manipulation of Harry, but some of it was necessary.

"But you didn't answer my question," she continued. "Why does Harry fight?"

"Because Tom killed Harry's parents!" snapped Ginny.

"I don't believe that to be true and nor do I think you accept that either!"

Hermione's eyes were too bright, almost as if she were feverish, thought Ginny, and for the first time she noticed just how much weight Hermione seemed to have lost recently. Her expression softened as she realised just how much pressure her friend was under, at the fact that Hermione must feel just as alone and isolated as she herself felt when she was cooped up in Gryffindor Tower. Sighing, she stood up and crossed the short space to Hermione's side. Placing her hand on her friend's forehead she did indeed feel a slight fever.

"Come," she said as she led her friend by the hand back to the sofa. "Hermione, tell me why you think Harry wants to fight Voldemort," she said as she sat stroking her friend's hand.

"That's the very crux of the matter, isn't it?" she replied. "He doesn't _want_ to fight at all, but he will because it's the right thing to do. He is a Gryffindor after all. Look at the Houses and the admittedly broad category of personalities they encompass. There are people in all of the Houses who would be willing to fight and those who wouldn't, but under what circumstances? A Slytherin might risk his or her neck for the possibility of future gain; the idea that they would in some way profit from their actions be it materially or otherwise. A Hufflepuff might be prepared to fight for their sense of loyalty and friendship which at the end of the day boils down to little more than enlightened self interest; a _'you watch my back and I'll watch yours'_ scenario, if you will. A Ravenclaw would most probably be motivated by the logic of a situation; that a battle was either winnable now for less expenditure of personnel or matériel than would be the case later on down the line or was the lesser of two evils in that the alternative would be worse." She drew to a shaky close, watched closely by Ginny.

"And you think a Gryffindor, that is to say us, would fight as it was the right thing to do?"

"I know I expressed it clumsily, but that's pretty much what I wanted to say. Courage is difficult to define, Ginny. A Death Eater shows a certain type of courage when he or she chooses to go up against someone like Jerry Puddicombe. For all his mild manners and sense of justice he is a dangerous man quite capable of killing when the occasion demands it. Most people who fight have had to master some degree of fear and have therefore demonstrated a certain degree of courage. When it comes to Gryffindors I like to think that Godric Gryffindor's quality, his own particular type of courage, was the ability to recognise what is the right course of action, the _moral_ thing to do, and then to do it regardless of the cost to yourself.

"That's why Harry fights: because it is the _right_ thing to do," Hermione finished with conviction.

"Like Ron," murmured Ginny.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, _'like Ron'_. Jerry Puddicombe is a decent man but he's also one that is prepared to kill…just like Ron," she finished, staring at her friend in an open challenge.

"Yes," sighed Hermione leaning back into the sofa and closing her eyes, "just like Ron."

----------

The same chill rain which lashed the castle and grounds of Hogwarts also drummed down on the cobbled streets of the Scottish town of Fettercairn. Beneath the feet of the unwitting inhabitants were a chain of extremely unstable caves. At least, this is what the Muggle repelling charms led any curious geologists or spelunkers to believe. In reality the caves, though admittedly dank, were well-lit and provisioned with enough stores to act as one of the many staging posts for Lord Voldemort's gathering forces.

Along the rough passageways which ran between the major caverns ran Death Eaters, all of whom were headed in the same direction: towards their master. They moved so rapidly that their black robes snapped and fluttered at their heels. The Dark Lord's silent summons was painfully strong as was usually the case, but much more important than this was the fact that the last Death Eater to arrive was often tortured with the Cruciatus curse as a lesson in punctuality. Yet today the tardy would have nothing to fear as there was already a much more interesting bill of entertainment which would serve to amuse _Him_.

As the last of the masked and robed figures entered the central cave, the cold waves of hatred which permeated the room were almost palpable. In the presence of Lord Voldemort his minions were accustomed to feeling such emotions radiating from the dais on which he habitually sat, but on this occasion they emanated from another location. A small space remained clear around the figure which stood painfully erect in the centre of the first row. It was here, from the person of Lucius Malfoy, that the powerful hatred flowed. Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the whole affair for those who witnessed it was the fact that his ire was focussed squarely and quite openly upon the platform itself. Ordinarily, such a blatant defiance of the authority of Lord Voldemort would ensure an amusing spectacle as the offender was tortured to death over a long period of time. Today, however, their leader sat at his ease in his ornate, high-backed chair as he looked down upon Lucius with something bordering on amusement flickering in his inhuman eyes.

The reason for their leader's extraordinary leniency was clear for all to see: he himself was not the focus of Lucius Malfoy's fury and his underlings' petty bickering was one of his favourite forms of entertainment. His once-trusted lieutenant's baleful glare was instead focussed on one of the other two figures on the dais who stood flanking the Dark Lord. At his left hand Voldemort chose to place that most unwitting bestower of kingly gifts, Gilberto Heel, whilst at his right hand was Severus Snape. Located just in front of his chair was a low lectern containing the now infamous ledger which was the subject of fevered speculation amongst the ranks.

The very sight of the hated book turned Lucius' stomach and as he fought down the rising tide of bile he flicked his eyes back between Snape and that good-for-nothing idiot Heel. Who would have thought that the wizard existed to make Peter Pettigrew look like a competent Death Eater? Between the self-serving arrogance of Severus and the insufferable self-importance of that jumped-up dimwit Heel, Lucius would not have been surprised if the churning acid in his stomach had burned a hole out through the soles of his boots. He snarled behind his mask as his gaze fell once again on the vacuous expression on Heel's face.

"Ah, Lucius!" Lord Voldemort crooned in his strangely husky, high-pitched voice. "To which of us on this dais is that quite delicious hatred of yours directed, my old friend? Perhaps I am the target of your displeasure for exiling you to stand amongst the hoi polloi? Well, I shall just have to try and contain my impatience and wait for all to be revealed in the fullness of time, shall I not? Oh, I do so like to see a healthy sense of competition between my followers, don't you agree Severus?"

"Quite, my lord," came the curt reply from the ramrod straight figure to Voldemort's right. "Those of us who have gained your favour through acts of service would do well not to forget our places lest we fall victims to our own pride," he pronounced in a bored tone of voice accompanied by a slight bow in his master's direction.

Lucius instantly forgot the wretched insect on the Dark Lord's left and fixed his gaze on Snape. What the devil was the man playing at? If he was indeed as relaxed as he appeared to be, then it must mean that their master was finally ready to act. But if that were the case, why then was he standing down here in the common ranks? Surely he would be needed to command one of the Death Eater Legions in the coming struggle. Whatever Snape's treachery had been, it must have been pure artistry on a scale never before seen in order to have succeeded in having him banished from their master's side. His eyes bored into Snape's yet they found not a hint of weakness there.

"My dear Lucius, I do declare that if looks could indeed kill I believe you would be alone in this chamber right now!" proclaimed a delighted Voldemort with an expansive sweep of his arms.

"Would that it were so, my liege!" answered Malfoy in his clipped, aristocratic tones. "I should like to imagine, however, that I would be possessed of the discipline to spare one or two people so that they might receive my _especial_ attention in due course." His meaning was not lost on Snape who merely contrived to look even more bored than he had before. Gilberto Heel's florid face sweated even more profusely as he tried and failed to follow the subtle undercurrent of implied meaning.

"My enlightened followers, I require your full attention!" Voldemort stated as he rose smoothly to his feet.

Silence fell immediately as the assembled witches and wizards, sensing an announcement or real import, jostled each other as they edged closer to the platform. The small space surrounding Lucius, however, remained untouched.

"The more perspicacious among you will have detected a certain..._edge_...to the atmosphere this evening, I am sure. This is due, in part, to the discommodious situation in which Lucius finds himself." Here he paused to sweep his inhuman eyes over the crowd. "No tittering from those who find his situation amusing? A wise decision, my friends, for although he has indeed fallen from grace he is still the most dangerous among you!" He slowly paced along the edge of the dais, letting his snake-like nose flare as it took in the scent and mood of his minions.

"Why then is this valuable tool of your master in disgrace?" he continued with a theatrical sweep of his arms, before letting them sink slowly to his sides. "Why? Because he _doubted!_ There is no room in the ranks of my followers for those who suffer from a lack of faith as you will soon see. For tonight I plan to show you all the price of doubting the only being in the world worthy of being its ruler! This evening, before your very eyes, you will behold a punishment which will be talked about for a thousand years to come!"

An almost imperceptible ripple in the mass of black robes saw a subtle widening of the gap between Lucius and his fellow Death Eaters. Although his breeding not only kept him in place, but also allowed him to maintain as imposing and as haughty a bearing as ever, he was sweating profusely behind his mask. The thoughts raced through his mind as he tried to recall what evidence might exist to testify to his many crimes against the Dark Lord. Admittedly, he had plundered the magical and mundane provisions laid down to sustain the Death Eaters through a protracted war to line his own pockets. However, with the ease which spoke of long practice, Lucius had managed to _Obliviate_ or have killed all those who might bear witness against him. Besides the highly profitable crime of embezzlement then, which was tacitly understood to be acceptable among the upper ranks of the Death Eaters, he really had committed no crime against the Dark Lord.

No crime, that is, except his little tête-à-tête with Snape to discuss his misgivings about the Dark Lord's relative inaction in prosecuting the war. Had he really been betrayed by Severus? Only time would tell as there was certainly no escape for him now. Should his master indeed turn against him then his only escape would be to try and take his own life as quickly as possible. Once again his eyes bored into Snape's as he desperately sought for some hint as to the truth of the matter. His nemesis, perfectly aware of the scrutiny, merely curled his lip and shifted his gaze to look up at the ceiling. All of these thoughts had flitted through his mind in the space of a second and any further musing was interrupted by The Dark Lord's unsettling voice as he resumed his monologue.

"But before we commence with the entertainment, let me offer you all yet another reward for your loyal service. My friends, the war is about to begin! The endgame of this skirmish which will see me installed to my rightful position as leader of both the magical and Muggle worlds is nigh! The temporary gains made by my enemies were the result of a simple stratagem in order to divert their attention. Those whom I allowed to fall to the Order were unworthy of joining us in the new order of things!

"Spearheading our overwhelming attack will be an army far more powerful and deadly than has ever been seen before in the world for nobody but Lord Voldemort has ever possessed even a tenth part of the _power_ needed to control it. They will sweep away all who dare to stand against us! Long have I hungered to set this particular horde loose on the world but I have waited, oh how I have waited and carefully husbanded this ravening swarm against the day of the final reckoning. You all see that it is not nearly enough that my enemies die, do you not? Before they are granted that final luxury they must first scream for the death of their Muggle-tolerant way of life and for their children who shall enter into perpetual servitude to the Dark Lord!"

The non-human face of Voldemort disappeared as he lowered his chin to his chest and ran his hands over his bald head. His chest was heaving with the emotion which had overtaken him in the midst of his diatribe and for long moments he stood unmoving in that dank cave. Not the slightest sound issued forth from the waiting mass of his followers. Finally, after what seemed like an age to both Lucius and his fellow Death Eaters, their master raised his head and bared his teeth.

"Yet I find that I am ahead of myself. I promised my faithful followers some sport and that is exactly what they shall have! Lucius, attend me if you would be so kind."

His sweating palm was already curled around the haft of his wand, but he very much doubted he would be able to turn it against himself. Such an action was all too common amongst those who were to receive the special attention of the Dark Lord and Death Eaters who surrounded the condemned individual made sure that he or she did not harm themselves lest they shared their terrible fate. With his back as straight as ever it had been, he crossed the short distance to stand in front of his master where he bowed his head.

"Your wand, my devious friend," whispered Voldemort as he stretched out his unwholesome hand to receive it.

Using every ounce of self control he possessed, Lucius kept his hand as steady as a rock as he deposited his wand in his master's hand. When he raised his head he found himself looking into an unusual expression on the Dark Lord's face. It was still a terrible visage to behold but this time with an interesting difference: he looked nonplussed. The merest hint of pursed lips would have been lost on anyone less familiar with the face or who was standing farther away. As he waited for the torture to begin, Lucius idly wandered what it might mean.

"It appears you were correct, Severus," Voldemort stated in a neutral tone of voice.

"My lord," was all that Severus replied with a slight bow.

"Which is interesting as it means that I, Lord Voldemort, was mistaken in my assumptions."

He raised Malfoy's wand and narrowed his eyes, as if were trying to divine a truth from it. Lucius had neither survived for so long in his service nor ascended so high in the ranks of the Death Eaters without the ability to read his master's moods. He was perplexed by the Dark Lord's behaviour this evening, however, and was more than a little shocked when his wand was held out to him haft first. Mastering his frayed emotions, he forced himself to reach up and accept the wand with a curt bow.

"Don't put it away yet!" snarled Voldemort.

The terse command left Lucius more than a little puzzled. The emotional ups and downs of the evening had left even him unsettled and his brow furrowed as he tried to fathom the factors leading to his master's mercurial mood. He gave it up almost instantly, however, as an impenetrable mystery. He would just have to wait and see how events played themselves out and be ready to think on his feet if, as it now seemed not entirely impossible, he was to survive this meeting.

The long, tapered fingers of the Dark Lord once again wandered over his head. It was a habit which none of his followers could remember from his previous incarnation and which was attributed to the fact that he was as yet unaccustomed to the sensations of a physical body after so many years spent as an insubstantial wraith. Only the most perceptive amongst them realised that it ordinarily signified frustration on his part and when the Dark Lord was frustrated, somebody would soon pay a terrible price.

"Lucius, you owe your very life to our mutual friend Severus and I find the irony in that fact does not appease my ill-feelings regarding this matter as they ordinarily would."

"My lord?" Lucius ground out from between clenched teeth, unable to believe what he had just heard.

"Severus plays his cards close to his chest. Why, he manages even to surprise me on occasion which is an ability I am not sure it would be wise to cultivate!" snapped Voldemort as he shot a calculating look at the impassive mien presented by his foremost servant. "He wagered your life that you would surrender your wand without hesitation; that you were indeed loyal to your master despite the evidence against you. I, however, was less sanguine about your activities and predicted that you would foolishly resist my will.

"I am a man of my word, Lucius, and it would seem that on this occasion I must spare your life. If, however, you should ever choose to turn a profit from by plundering my Death Eaters' stores, it will go badly with you. Do I make myself understood?"

For the briefest on instants Lucius considered denying the charge for to admit it would be to permanently weaken his position in the ranks of the Dark Lord's followers. For once he had been publicly chastised and punished; his moral authority would be irreparably damaged. His nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath, he forced himself to calmly speak his reply.

"As always, my lord, your words are the very essence of clarity."

"Then the matter is closed," stated Voldemort coldly.

He turned his back and moved towards his ornate, high-backed chair before pausing. With his back still to the throng of his followers, he added,

"Ah, but there still remains the matter of your co-conspirator in this matter, your place at my side on this dais and the afore-mentioned crime of _doubt_. Fortunately, all of these matters are interrelated or this might otherwise prove to have been a very long and tedious meeting."

Voldemort continued to his chair and sat himself down before continuing in the same high-pitched voice as always.

"Lucius, give your wand to Gilberto!"

Mounting the platform in an instant, three long strides brought him nose to nose with the loathsome little oik. Sensing the direction of the events for the first time during this taxing evening, Malfoy smirked as proffered the wand to the odious little clown who stood trembling before him.

"Take it!" barked Voldemort.

Reluctantly, Gilberto Heel's hand rose slowly to take the wand from tall madman who stood in front of him. He trembled as he regarded the long, thin piece of wood in his hands. He had prepared his bolt hole over the past few months against any personal danger and now all he could think about was escaping this den of mad vipers to take refuge there.

"Heel, you doubted me!" snapped Voldemort. "Worse than that, you amassed potions, food and money necessary to the war effort in case you needed to escape. _To escape!_" he screamed. "Worse than this, you managed to convince Lucius, hitherto one of my most trustworthy agents, to join you in this folly and for this crime _you…will…die_.

"Yet I am not unmindful of the great service you have rendered and for that alone I am prepared to offer you a great gift. Using the wand in your hand you may take your own life…now. Should you do so you will die quickly. I must warn you, though, that if you lack the steel to do so I will allow poor Lucius to have his fun. After all, somebody must be punished tonight as I did promise such a spectacle to those Death Eaters who remain…_loyal…_ to me."

At last the penny dropped. As he stared down at the twitching heap of dung which was Heel, Lucius experienced a moment of epiphany. Of course the Dark Lord knew that his senior Death Eaters were lining their own pockets by raiding the stores! If they didn't do so they would hardly be fit material for leading his legions. His master needed greedy individuals who could be trusted to act in such a manner for they would hesitate at nothing, balk at no sacrifice to achieve his goals. Any person who did less than embezzle funds and matériel from the organisation was less than a Death Eater.

He wasn't being punished for stealing so much as he was being punished for doubting; a crime of which he had never been guilty! As he tore his eyes away from the already doomed Heel, he looked directly at Severus who was no longer avoiding his gaze. His old rival gave him a microscopic nod of his head and a look of undisguised hatred by way of confirmation. He no longer needed to hide the fact that he had somehow managed to manipulate both Heel and the Dark Lord – that he had manufactured the downfall of his only serious rival in the ranks of the Death Eaters.

All along it had been Snape!

Incandescent with rage, he plucked his wand from the small hand of the insect which had unwittingly aided in his disgrace and downfall. With a hatred the likes of which he had never before felt, he focussed his will on the man before him.

"_Crucio!"_ he hissed from between bared teeth.

Such was his ire at being manipulated by Snape that the sheer force of the curse and the agony it inflicted caused Heel to snap his own spine as his plump body arched in shock. Such a death was nowhere near enough to assuage the indignant hatred which rose in is breast and he continued to pour his power into the curse. Heel's body continued to spasm and jerk around on the dais as if it were summoned by multiple _Accio_ spells.

"Good, Lucius! Excellent, my friend!" crooned Voldemort who had brightened considerably at such an unexpected display of hatred and savagery. "Perhaps I was hasty in my judgement of you and uncharitable in my resentment towards Severus for having saved your life!"

As Lucius maintained the Unforgivable curse on the corpse of Heel, he raised his eyes to meet the unflinching gaze of Snape.

The message was clear: there would be a reckoning between them…and soon.

----------


	24. Et tu Brute?

**Chapter 24 – Et tu Brute?**

Hermione, Ron and Ginny were in a shadowy nook of the Fifth Common Room. It was early in the morning and, by giving breakfast a miss, they had managed to thrash out the majority of their plan without any interruptions on the part of Moody or his Aurors. Nevertheless, they were conversing in whispers, had their heads together and were sitting shoulder to shoulder around the small table in order to minimise the risk of being overheard. These three had borne witness to the fact that sneaking around the castle eavesdropping on other people's conversations wasn't exactly all that difficult. Consequently, they were more than a little wary of being caught themselves.

Over the course of the last week they had been following Harry as much as their respective schedules would allow them. They had to be careful not to be seen to be crowding him, anxious as they were not to tip their hand too soon; for although he was giving a creditable impression of being the same old Harry, to his close friends it was more than evident that he was not himself. The task fell for the most part to Ron and Hermione with Ginny only able to run interference at the weekends. Fortunately, the Death Eaters' attacks seemed to have tailed off recently which left them both with enough time to do what needed to be done.

"So we're all agreed then?" whispered an earnest Hermione.

Despite the fact that she was down to one arm, she still seemed to need the most space on the small table. Before her were a series of parchments which contained the details and records of their surveillance assignments from the previous week and it seemed as if Harry was spending an awful lot of his time down in the cellars of the tower. On the face of it this seemed to make little sense, as there were certainly no secret passages down there and nothing else but a series of damp, musty chambers.

"Yeah, whatever you say" mumbled a sleepy Ron.

"Yes, of course," answered a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Ginny.

Ron tutted audibly, rolling his eyes at his sister's enthusiasm. Even though his time in the ranks of Moody's Aurors had been short, he had been involved in way too many early morning skull sessions for them to have retained their glamour.

"Ronald! I hope you're paying attention!"

"Relax, Hermione! You and I've got the easy part and I reckon we can pull it off. It's Gin who's got to pull a rabbit out of the hat."

"_Pull a rabbit out…?_ Ron, wherever did you learn that expression?" said Hermione with a giggle.

"It was one of Dad's favourites," he said with a faint grin as he put his left arm around his sister's shoulders and covered her hands with his right hand.

Ginny put her head on her brother's shoulder as she smiled but Hermione could still see the underlying sadness in both of their faces. She leant into her brother's embrace and closed her eyes, obviously thinking of her father. They were both still mourning his loss but it was a good sign that they were at last speaking about him without being prompted. Hermione reached out her hand to place it on top of theirs.

"Let's do it then…for Harry," she said.

"We'll catch him with his pants down," stated Ron forcefully.

"Oh, goody – do let's!" cooed Ginny after a pregnant pause. She bounced up and down in her chair and rubbed her hands together in an exaggerated manner.

"Yeah, Gin, like you'd know what to do with a trouser-less Potter!" humphed a flinty-eyed Ron.

"Oh, and you'd know what to do with a skirt-less…?" began Ginny, nodding towards a wide-eyed Hermione.

"Ginny!" she cried out, shocked at the direction the conversation was taking.

"At least I've seen him with his trousers off!" stated Ron. He winced as he realised that it was hardly the put-down he had meant it to be.

They all burst out in hysterical laughter with the two Weasleys blushing as they hadn't done in a long time. So unusual was the sound of honest mirth these days that in just a few moments the door opened to reveal a suspicious Jerry. Flicking his eyes around the large chamber and seeing nothing out of the ordinary he merely frowned before himself cracking a smile at the sight of the three youngsters. He winked at them, quietly closed the door and left.

"Harry should be here with us right now, joining in like in the old days," said Hermione as they calmed down.

"For Harry," said Ginny with conviction as they all rose to their feet.

----------

"What was that bloody racket?" demanded Moody as Jerry reappeared in the Map Room. The old Auror spent most of his time now poring over the magical map he had been so surprised to receive from the Ministry of Magic. He had only had Potter ask for it as the beginning of a bargaining strategy, never imagining that Scrimgeour would actually come up with the goods. When it had been delivered, both he and Filius Flitwick had gone over it with a fine-toothed comb looking for any manner of hanky-panky. Much to their surprise it had been as clean as an Unspeakable's sheets, a fact which only made Mad-Eye all the more suspicious of Scrimgeour's motives.

"Just the kids having a laugh," Jerry replied with a shrug.

"What, at this time in the morning?" he growled. "They must be up to something!"

"They very probably are, Mad-Eye, but it can't be anything serious," he said, rubbing his hands over his eyes. "They're up to their noses in Aurors here and anything dangerous is under lock and key with an armed guard to boot. Whatever they're planning is most likely some juvenile prank to let off some steam." Looking over at Bob and Iain who both appeared to be dozing, he added with a nasty grin, "We should probably send the _girls_ here to lend them a hand – juvenile is their speciality!"

"Up yours, Jerry," yawned Iain without opening his eyes.

"Tosser," added Bob sleepily.

"Don't start!" ordered Moody. "We've no time for that rubbish today! Now, who's relieving Massingbird and Sprout from baby sitting the Horcrux?"

Jerry rubbed his itching eyes again. Today promised to be a very long day.

----------

Harry had become adept at hiding the seemingly endless anguish which had haunted him ever since that fateful day in the Ministry of Magic. He had been afraid that he simply wouldn't be able to go on, that he would stay in bed one morning and never again get up. Only the fact that he had to see this through to the end – that the price to be paid should he fail was too great to even consider – kept him going. So he now wore a 'Harry mask' in that the surface of his face was no longer a part of him. It didn't reflect the pain, fear and desperation which he constantly felt inside, but rather showed a calm façade which would draw no attention.

On the surface of things he did seem to be quieter and more serious to those who actually knew him, but this was to be expected of the poor sod that had to go toe to toe with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Consequently, as he withdrew from the company of others to spend more and more time on his own, it was assumed that he was preparing himself mentally for the coming confrontation. As long as he was safe in the tower none of the Order much cared what he got up to. He deserved a little privacy, they thought.

He was a little surprised, therefore, to round the corner of the low passageway in the cellars to find himself faced with two intruders in his private demesne. Hermione and a stooping Ron were standing but a couple of metres in front of him and for long moments none of them chose to speak. Harry's eyes lingered on the stump of Hermione's left arm and then flicked to her right arm which was wrapped around Ron's waist. They certainly didn't look as if they were looking for trouble, so if he just listened attentively to their plaintive yet predictable pleas for him to tell them what was the matter they should realise that he wouldn't reveal anything and take themselves off.

"Hermione, you're too thin," he said bluntly in an attempt to divert them.

"I won't be for too much longer, Harry. _Somebody_ told Mrs Weasley I wasn't eating properly and she set Professor McGonagall on me. I now eat my supper in her chambers and Molly just happens to conveniently call through the Floo network at the end of every meal."

Ron looked down at his feet and it didn't take much in the way of brain power for Harry to work out who the mystery informer was. For just the briefest of moments the mask slipped as he smiled at the thought of Ron needing his mother's help to deal with his strong-willed girlfriend.

"Some Gryffindor you are, Ron!" he laughed.

Ron looked up, startled by the thought that Harry had just revealed the identity of the quisling. However, when he saw Hermione smiling up at him and trying to suppress her laughter, he realised that she had known all along.

"Yeah, well…you know how she is," he muttered, blushing for the second time that morning.

Harry didn't know if Ron was referring to his mother or his girlfriend and his smile broadened into a grin. For just a few precious moments it was like the old days when he could tell them everything and he felt as if they were invincible. This time, though, he couldn't involve them and so the mask fell back into place. Ron and Hermione seemed to sense the change in their friend and their faces fell too.

"Harry, are you all right mate?" asked Ron. "You seem to be spending an awful lot of time down here and it's bloody gloomy! Why don't you come upstairs and we'll see if we can't get up Moody's nose?"

"Thanks, Ron, but I think I'll stay here for a while. It's quiet and it helps me to think. Perhaps I'll come up later and we'll talk. Ask Nobby to send up some éclairs," he added thoughtfully, "I haven't had any of those for ages."

"Éclairs it is, Harry. We'll be waiting for you at 2 o'clock – don't be late!" said Hermione.

With this the three friends parted. Ron and Hermione made their way back to the spiral staircase which would take them back up to the ground floor of the tower. As he watched the light from Ron's wand grow dimmer and listened to their fading footsteps, Harry felt an acute ache in his chest. He so very much wanted and needed to tell them what had happened, but of course he couldn't. He went to surreptitiously follow his friends back to the staircase to make sure they had indeed left. Watching as they closed the door behind them, he felt himself relax. If they came back to pester him some more he would hear the rusty old hinges squeal their warning and be able to hide what he was up to.

"_Lumos,"_ he said softly as he turned to retrace his steps.

Harry's face lifted a little at the memories of the good times he had spent with them. He trailed his fingers along the gritty surface of the wall and breathed deeply of the musty air, reminded of the secret passage leading to the cellar of Honeydukes. A ghost of a smile twitched the corners of his mouth as he remembered when a visit to Hogsmeade had been the most important event in his life. As he recalled his first visit there and the good times he had spent with Ron and Hermione on the path between the village and Hogwarts, his resolve began to weaken and he was actually considering joining his friends later on. When the faint glow from his wand revealed the passage which held his destination, however, he remembered they were times which were now gone forever. As the frown settled back onto his face and the heaviness around his heart, the mask slipped back into place.

"_Finite Incantatem,"_ he said.

A section of the wall wavered before the disillusionment spell melted away to reveal a truly ancient door. If Moody was correct and the tower had indeed been built by the wizards from the early stages of the Roman Empire, then they all must have been on the seriously short side. Approaching the arch, Harry steeled himself for what lay ahead and tapped the lock with his wand. A crude caricature of a face appeared on the blackened planks, formed by knots in the ancient wood.

"_Ave,"_ it rasped in a dry voice.

"Ave, portus," replied Harry politely before giving the password. "Corpus delicti."

The door always surprised him by opening silently. Just looking at its ancient appearance put him in mind of dramatic squeaking of hinges and stalking vampires cowled in voluminous robes. This was more than likely due to the fact that the only time he had controlled the television at the Dursleys had been late at night when his uncle, aunt and cousin were in bed. On the very rare occasions that he had been able to sneak into the lounge undetected, all that there had been to see was the low quality night time television including those cheesy old horror films.

Shaking his head at his wandering mind, Harry stepped over the threshold of the door into the mottled silvery blue light cast by Dumbledore's Pensieve. He paused before approaching the stone bowl which he hated and longed for in equal parts. Something was niggling him and he wanted to be sure that he was…

Pulling out the Marauders' Map which now resided permanently inside his robes, he quickly checked the upper levels of the tower. Sure enough, Hermione and Ron were in the Fifth Common Room and sitting awfully close to one another. Apart from the goodly number of Aurors which were always to be found here, Harry could also see that Iain, Bob and Jerry were closeted away with Moody in the Map Room and it would be safe to say that they were not having the time of their lives. Grunting, he folded the map and placed it back in the deep pocket inside his robes before drawing his wand and finally stepping towards the Pensieve.

"Did you forget to check the lower levels, my love? I thought you'd caught me red-handed there," said a light, clear voice behind him.

Such was the shock of hearing the unexpected voice that Harry literally jumped up with a yelp before whisking around to confront the intruder. Instead of the enemy he feared would find him and the contents of the Pensieve, he was faced with something far worse.

Ginny.

Her head appeared as she pulled the Invisibility Cloak back over her head. Her slightly mussed hair made Harry blink as he realised that he hadn't seen her in anything but her school uniform for quite a while now. With her head seemingly floating in the air he had nothing else about her appearance to distract him and he realised that she had aged recently. Not in the haggard way of everybody else who seemed to be burning the candle at both ends, but rather she was blooming into a young woman, just as Hermione had once done. Her red hair reflected the glimmering light from behind him and she looked…beautiful.

"Are you going to use that?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at the wand he had levelled at her.

"Maybe," he replied, fighting to master his leaping heart and keep his voice flat and unfriendly. "I still haven't forgotten the time you hexed me in the Gryffindor tower."

She shrugged his cloak off her shoulders and deftly folded it in the way that only women seem able to do. She also took off her hooded top to allow Harry to see that she couldn't have another wand hidden in her tight t-shirt or the waistband of her jeans. Slowly withdrawing her own wand from her back pocket with the tips of her fingers, she placed it on top of the clothes and stepped forward into the chamber. The silvery blue light became more pronounced as the door closed behind her, plunging them into almost complete darkness.

Harry still didn't lower his wand but did step back to allow her access to the circular portion of the chamber behind him. Ginny's eyes were fixed on the Pensieve and she paced around the edge of the room as if she were trying to keep her distance from it.

"Harry, where did you get that Pensieve?" she asked fearfully.

"Scrimgeour sent it to me after we had our cosy little chat at the Ministry - considerate of him don't you think?"

She looked up, surprised that he alluded quite so readily to that day. Although his face was closed to her, his eyes flickered slightly with some emotion which she could not read. This was the point at which they could no longer continue with their planning as they had no idea what was here. The only reason Ron hadn't gone to Moody to inform him of the girl's plan was that this tower was now the safest place in the country. Time and again the castle of Hogwarts had been infiltrated by servants of the You-Know-Who, but Mad-Eye had seen to it that such skulduggery was impossible for this small area. Whatever was in this chamber simply couldn't represent a physical danger to anyone, so why was it that Harry looked scared out of his wits?

"You have to leave, Ginny," stated Harry.

"No," she said, looking directly at him. "You either show me what this is or I go to Moody. You can hex me into next week if you want to, but how long do you think it will be before Ron stomps off to raise the alarm?"

"Ginny…please, trust me when I say you can't get involved. You have to leave me to deal with this in my own way!"

"But I don't trust you, love. Have you forgotten what happened to me with Tom's dairy? I love you but I reckon Hermione and Ron are right: you have been bewitched. Unless you prove to us that you haven't been, we turn you in."

All the time they had been speaking, Ginny had been slowly closing the distance between the two of them. Harry had kept his wand raised and now it was poking her in the stomach.

"I love you, Harry."

For a moment nothing happened, but then the wand dropped from Harry's fingers to clatter on the cold stone floor. They collided in a fierce embrace and collapsed to the floor without breaking it. Ginny could tell from the wetness on her neck that Harry was crying, but not wanting to break the embrace or the truce which now seemed to exist between them she chose not to say or to do anything. They sat there together on the flagstones for a good long while.

"Ginny?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"You shouldn't have got involved in this. There's no escape from it and that's the problem, that's what's killing me; the fact that I know we won't be together after this has finished."

"Harry, I don't understand."

By way of reply, he simply inclined his head towards the Pensieve. She looked at him and nodded, but didn't look at all confident.

"I love you and if you want to do it I'll be here for you afterwards. Be warned, though, it's not a pretty sight."

Ginny nodded and rose to her feet. She approached the Pensieve and placed her hands on either side of the broad bowl. Just before ducking under the marbled surface of the liquid she turned around to look at Harry.

He was sitting with his back to her and his head in his hands.

----------

Standing painfully erect with his arms crossed over his chest, Severus Snape presented an intimidating figure as he stared at the all-too-familiar sight of Hogwarts Castle from the tree line of the Forbidden Forest. The early twilight meant that such scrutiny revealed little, but he would rather look with loathing upon his prison for the past twenty years than suffer the endless looks which would come his way were he to turn around. He gave no sign that he was aware of the hive of activity surrounding him, yet none of the many Death Eaters dared tarry in carrying out their assigned tasks or give any less than their very best efforts.

There was none higher than Severus Snape in the favour of the Dark Lord.

A chill breeze in the late winter air brought with it the promise of thick hoarfrost at the very least come the dawn. His twin curtains of black hair swayed slightly, tickling the end of his nose and irritating his eyelashes, but no response did this provoke as his eyes bored into the ancient bastion of wizardkind. After a few more moments of contemplation his left hand emerged from his robes to brush the locks of hair away.

"Finally," he murmured.

"S-S-Severus?" stuttered a hated voice at his left.

"What is it, Pettigrew?" he ground out. Never again would he lower himself to use the ridiculous name of his Animagus alter ego.

"Lucius sends his duty and reports that his Legion is in position on the f-far side of the Great Lake. He will raise the anti-apparation wards at your s-signal. Bellatrix begs to inform you that her Legion is likewise r-ready to act upon receiving your orders as are those o-of McNair and Dolohov."

"Very well," he answered curtly with a single nod of his half-turned head.

Everything must be perfect for when the Dark Lord chose to arrive. For years Snape had dreamt of this moment and now it was nigh: Harry Potter would be delivered into the hands of Lord Voldemort at last.

----------

It was near the witching hour and Ron was getting more than a little impatient. He would never have let Ginny go into certain danger and neither would Hermione, but there was always an element of risk in any such plan. They had all agreed that if she hadn't reported back by midnight, he would go to Professor McGonagall and spill the beans.

It was a measure of just how much he had changed that he wasn't huffing or puffing or indeed breaking anything. The majority of the day had been spent in quiet repose with Hermione, with the both of them either napping or talking. Their relationship had deepened over the course of the last few months and they now took great pleasure in idling away the hours in one another's company. Ron had finally taken to reading a little light fiction whereas Hermione had now developed a liking for the more intellectual games favoured by wizardkind.

He was casting a hungry eye over the plate of dry éclairs which Hermione had asked for earlier when the unexpected snap of the latch on the door startled them both. They were more than a little relieved to see the door open and close.

"Are you okay? Did it work?" asked Ron urgently looking into the empty space between him and the door.

"Yes and no," was all Ginny said as her head appeared out of nowhere. She looked like she had been dragged backwards through a hedge and clearly wasn't at all happy.

"What do you mean? Did you find out what Harry was up to? Where is he now and where have you been all day?" demanded Hermione.

By way of reply Ginny let the cloak fall to the floor. Ron and Hermione gasped when Harry was revealed crouching at Ginny's side. He wasn't smiling, but there was a difference to his expression and bearing which seemed reminiscent of the Harry of old.

"What the bloody hell…?" began Ron.

"Both of you relax!" said Harry firmly. He crossed the chamber to sit on the sofa next to Hermione. Reaching out to take one of the éclairs, he frowned as he saw how dry it was but wolfed it down nevertheless. Another one followed the first almost instantly.

"Harry?" said Hermione. She was clearly puzzled by the abrupt change in her friend.

"It's okay," he sighed. "The reason Ginny…we were so late in getting back was that we had to pay a little visit to Snape's old storeroom in the main castle."

"What? Why?" spluttered Ron.

Ever mindful of Madam Pomfrey's words about his heart, he was obviously trying to keep his calm. Ginny walked the short distance to his side, stood on the tips of her toes and pecked him on the cheek.

"Everybody calm down and Ginny will explain everything, at least everything that she can," qualified Harry.

"We stopped off at the castle to collect this," she said as she placed a small vial on the table next to Hermione. "It's the very last of the Veritaserum. We brought it here as it's the only way I could think of to accommodate both Harry and you.

"This all has to do with some…_information_…about Tom. Including me there are only four people alive who know what it is and that's already too many. If this information were to fall into the wrong hands it would be the end of everything. Do you understand?"

"So what's your plan?" asked Ron as he eyed the potion vial uneasily.

"I take the Veritaserum…"

"No!" yelled Ron.

"I take the Veritaserum and Hermione asks me any question she wants to satisfy herself that I haven't been cursed, hexed, bamboozled, drugged or anything similar. Harry stays here to make sure that she doesn't become over curious and go digging where she shouldn't."

Silence reigned. Ron looked back and forth between Harry and his sister. Hermione sat looking down at the floor with her lips pursed.

"It's the only way," muttered Harry. "Trust me when I say we can't do anything else."

Hermione nodded.

"This had better be bloody worth it!" growled Ron as Ginny took the vial and a glass and settled herself down in an armchair next to the fire.

----------


	25. The Fatal Fury

**Chapter 25 - The Fatal Fury**

"_And he piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the rage and hate felt by his whole race. If his chest had been a cannon, he would have shot his heart upon it."_

_Herman Melville, Moby Dick (1851)_

**07.45 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

Ron Weasley drew his Auror robes more tightly about him in the chill morning air but chose not to raise his hood. His ears and the tip of his nose were numb to be sure, yet he didn't want to miss a single second of this, the day which might well prove to be the most important of his life…and in all probability the very last.

He wanted his senses to drink in every detail of the world around him, as if by doing so he could squeeze extra time out of the seconds and minutes as they drifted by; time which he ordinarily squandered by letting it fritter away unattended. As he stamped his feet to settle them into his clammy boots, he smiled at the idiocy of his own observation. If he ever got the chance he would have to share it with Hermione as it was just the sort of woolly thinking which would get her goat.

His eyes, long accustomed as they were to the night sky, detected the very slightest of brightening along the eastern horizon which heralded the arrival of the dawn. Soon there would be a brightening of the sky which would afford the Forbidden Forest a magnificent crown of light if the last few days were anything to go by. All in all, he was glad to have seen the day in as it was a breathtaking sight to behold.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley, poet laureate!" he muttered to himself.

"Speaking to yourself, Ronald?" asked Hieronymus Massingbird.

"Apparently it's a sign of genius, Hero," he answered with a shy smile.

He had been delighted when, on the previous day, Hero had reappeared after a long absence from the school. No explanations had ever been offered but neither were they necessary. When Harry returned from the mission that had left every single one of its participants maimed and Hermione missing an arm, he had done so with a Horcrux in his hand. Ron assumed that the periodic absences of various members of the Hogwarts faculty as well as senior members of the Order of the Phoenix were to do with either destroying or hiding the bloody thing.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Iain Knatchbull expansively. "We all know it's a sign of approaching madness in the feeble minded."

Ron made a rude gesture to accompany the grin on his face as his heart swelled at seeing Iain and Jerry. He felt a lot better knowing that they would be standing by his side throughout the course of today. He frowned a little at the curious sight of the two of them smoking their pipes as Hero in turn fussed with the tiny example he favoured. What had at first been an interesting Muggle idiosyncrasy on the part of Professor Massingbird now seemed to be a widespread habit.

"If you want to talk about feeble minded, how about people who smoke?" he shot back at he huge man in the broomchair. "Present company excluded, Hero," he added, anxious not to offend his friend.

As Massingbird shook his head and waved away Ron's apology, Bob Choeke ambled towards them all and tutted audibly as he saw what they were up to. Waving his hand in front of his face in a wholly unnecessary manner, he moved past them to stand next to Ron.

"Bob, we're standing in the middle of a bloody moor! It's not as if your clothes or your precious hair will smell, man!" cried an exasperated Jerry.

"Anything that Moody does is for pillocks," stated Bob matter-of-factly.

"Well that can't be your excuse, Ron," said Iain. "Why not join us? It puts hairs on your chest!"

"No, it was weird for me that Dad, who was obsessed with all things Muggle, was so rabidly anti-smoking. I just grew up thinking that it was some weird form of Muggle poison," he answered.

"Well, he wouldn't have been exaggerating had he been speaking about Moody's tobacco. Have you smelt that stuff? Merlin, he must scrape it off the bottom of his boots at night!"

Even Hero laughed at this one, despite the fact that he didn't usually stand for criticising adults in the presence of what he still saw as pupils.

"To imagine, before I started to ascend in the ranks of the Aurors I used to think you were cool!" joked Ron as he stepped back from a billow of smoke.

"Ascend?" said Jerry mildly.

"Do we have a rank low enough for him?" said Iain with a nasty grin.

"Yeah, that's a point; what are the Auror ranks, anyway?" asked Ron eagerly.

"Well, at the top you have the Provost Marshall, currently Bertrand Killick, who is sometimes also called the Black Leg," explained Jerry. "Under him there are the National Brigadiers for Scotland, Wales and England respectively. Each of these National Brigadiers has a number of Regional Commanders who in turn have Field Directors like me reporting to them…"

"All bloody chiefs and no Indians!" grumbled Bob.

"The Aurors are the rabble like Iain and Bob and you…"

"Yeah?" prompted Ron desperately.

"Pipsqueak?" suggested Jerry between puffs at his pipe.

"No, something more like 'Little Girl' I think," stated Iain firmly.

"Radish, perhaps?" suggested Bob helpfully.

"Bollocks to the lot of you!" huffed Ron as the blush rising up his face banished the cold. The raucous laughter of those around him was hard to resist, however, and he soon found himself joining in. Part of the attraction of a life as an Auror was undoubtedly the constant ribbing of one's colleagues. It was if you were a part of a huge club whose members were always in boisterously good spirits.

Without warning there came a magical jolt which raced out from the castle behind them. It set all the birds in the Forbidden Forest to wing in alarm and was seen to disturb the surface of the lake, sending its waters sloshing a metre or more up its banks. The witches and wizards present at what would later be referred to as The Battle of The Brae also felt the rising pressure of a magical shock wave rock them on their heels. Anyone watching would have seen each and every individual there sway once forwards and once backwards in perfect unison.

Something magical on an enormous scale had just happened.

"Harry's on," said Jerry grimly as he knocked the tobacco out of his pipe and stored it in some inner pocket of his robes.

"I hope he's up to the task," replied Bob as he spat out a piece of fingernail. "I'd hate to be risking my life for no good reason!"

"I'll leave you gentlemen to prepare yourselves. The very best of luck to us all!" said Hero as he took himself off to the castle.

"_Sonorus!"_ cried Iain who had been assigned Standard Bearer for the 1st Phalanx, Auror Regiment of the Phoenix Brigade. It would be his job to quickly and efficiently convey to the troops the orders of their Phalanx Commander in the noise and confusion of a wizard battle. Much to the relief and delight of the professional Aurors who formed this particular phalanx, Winifred Drinkwater had been named as their commander. She had the reputation as a tough, no-nonsense leader who was no one's fool and had bags of combat experience.

"**_1st Phalanx, Auror Regiment…form ranks!"_** roared Iain's voice.

Ron shivered as he turned to watch almost two hundred Aurors come to attention from various states of repose. The six files of thirty were all dressed in their dark grey robes and presented a uniform and disciplined aspect. These were fully trained and battle hardened troops who would be forming the vanguard of the Order's military force and who would therefore be the first into action and the last out of it. Despite the churning of his stomach and the taste of bile in his mouth, Ron still felt invincible. Being from what was essentially a cloistered society, he had only once before in his life seen so many witches and wizards openly gathered together. The Quidditch World Cup had been a different kettle of fish to this, however.

The 1st, 2nd and 3rd Phalanxes of the hastily assembled Auror Regiment represented almost the sum total of Aurors in Great Britain. But a handful remained to guard the Ministry of Magic, and all other sensitive buildings and areas had been stripped of their protection and told to fend for themselves in case of attack. Quickly doing the maths in his head, Ron worked out that just about one per cent of wizardkind in Great Britain worked as Aurors. He briefly wondered how that compared to the Muggles and wished he had paid more attention in Muggle Studies.

The three phalanxes were arrayed in a straight line between Hogwarts and the tree line. Although the Death Eater Legions had yet to show themselves, there was no doubt that today was the day. The myriad of twinkling fires which had remained constant under the eaves of the Forbidden Forest for the last week had been abandoned and were now dwindling. The inevitable period of waiting as two large forces busied themselves with the mechanics of feeding, sheltering and moving its troops and matériel was over.

Today battle would be joined.

"_Ron!"_ hissed Bob.

Ron turned back from staring at the ranks of Aurors behind him just in time to see Iain hoist the colours of the 1st Phalanx on a pole attached to the back of his broomchair. Winifred Drinkwater had chosen unicorns rampant over crossed wands on a diagonally split background of black and midnight blue. A low murmur of approval sounded from the ranks behind him.

"It's a bit…_Ravenclaw_…isn't it?" whispered Ron out of the corner of his mouth.

"Well, that was her house…and Bubastis Bitterman's," replied Bob with a shrug. "The 2nd Phalanx is marching under the yellow banner of Sigmund Green, late of Hufflepuff, and the 3rd is marching under a suspiciously green colour if you know what I mean," he recounted with obvious relish in the face of Ron's amazement. "Go where you will today, Ron, but you'll find no Gryffindor red on this field."

"A Slytherin banner?" asked Ron incredulously. "Who's that?"

Bob told him.

"No way!"

Bob's laughter was drowned out by the distant sound of shouted orders coming from the phalanxes to their right as they too prepared themselves for the coming battle. Somewhere behind them, Ron knew, was a reserve force of adult wizards and witches who had volunteered to fight. With just over one thousand wands to fight an estimated twelve Death Eater Legions you didn't need to be from Ravenclaw to know that the odds were heavily piled against the Order.

"_**1st Phalanx, Auror Regiment…forward march!"** _boomed the order.

In perfect unison the three phalanxes moved away from the relative safety of the castle and its walls to meet the ranks of Death Eaters now emerging from the trees. Ron no longer felt at all safe or confident.

----------

**08.00 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

"For Merlin's sake, Lupin, shall I explain it again or will I just be wasting my time?" exclaimed an exasperated Moody.

"I'll do my very best to comprehend, Alastor, as you know very well that I always do. However, if I am to effectively convey the state of affairs to Minerva as she moves about the castle and its grounds, you will have to express yourself in terms which the layperson will understand."

The shabby old Auror pursed his lips and ceased his endless pacing. The two men were situated on the roof of the gatehouse facing the Forbidden Forest. Surrounding them were a number of support staff whose job it was to ensure that Moody's instructions and observations were conveyed to each of the Phalanx Commanders by hook or by crook. In the coming chaos communication would be everything. Each side would be doing its utmost to guard its own channels of communication whilst doing everything in its power to disrupt those of the enemy.

"As I've already explained to you we're flying blind here, Remus. There hasn't been a set battle between opposing magical armies on mainland Britain for nigh on 1,000 years! As everyone is busy quaking in their boots at the thought of the Death Eater Legions out there they would do well to remember that such a large force is impossibly unwieldy and has no more experience than us at moving large blocks of troops around a battlefield. At the end of the day, whichever force is more manoeuvrable will win the battle.

"The Order of the Phoenix is a brigade-sized force consisting of roughly 1,100 individuals. There are two regiments of about 550; one consisting entirely of Aurors and the other one formed by all other adult personnel. Each of those regiments has three phalanxes of somewhere in the region of 180 individuals. In short, we are a small but highly professional fighting force which will be a tough nut to crack. Unfortunately for the brave troops we see marching out to meet the Death Eater Legions, they are outnumbered by three-to-one according to the latest reports. If the battle drags on, they win. If it doesn't, they won't."

"Well, that doesn't sound so bad after all!" exclaimed Lupin consolingly. He stood up and pulled his tweed cloak more tightly around himself. Although he had gained weight during his tenure at Hogwarts, nobody would ever describe him as anything else than _slim_. He felt the cold more acutely than most other people.

"Hold your hippogriffs, Remus! You don't know the half of it yet," snarled Mad-Eye. "Look down there and tell me what you see."

"I see three blocks of troops advancing to meet at least nine Death Eater Legions. I can also see that the battlefield is far too narrow for them to deploy all of their troops, so that's one point in our favour at least." He looked over to Moody with raised eyebrows as if to invite a critique of his appraisal of the tactical situation.

"Quite right, Remus; you can indeed see somewhere in the region of two thousand _troops_ ready to have at each other in an undoubtedly heroic way."

He waited for Lupin to pick up on the heavily stressed 'troops', but to no avail.

"Damn it all, Lupin, must I take your hand and walk you through everything?"

"Apparently you must, Moody," was the mild reply.

"All you or I can see are humans, man! Where are all the Giants, Dragons, Blast-ended skrewts, Gorgons, Manticores, Chimeras and all the other nasty beasts that you'd care to name?"

"Well, I haven't seen…" began Lupin.

"Of course you haven't!" yelled Mad-Eye. "When the Death Eaters arrived they surprised us by erecting their own set of anti-apparation wards outside of our existing ones instead of trying to rip them down. Next they wrong-footed us by setting up camp and roasting chestnuts instead of attacking straight away when we didn't have half of our numbers here. To cap it all they just let everybody Floo in without mounting a single attack on the network. Why?" he thundered.

"Well, it's obvious that You-Know-Who wants us all in the same place," offered Remus.

"Exactly! Yes! But it's more than that, Lupin, so much more. _He_ is so confident of victory that he doesn't want to sully it by sharing the glory with non-humans, hence the fact that his wee beasties aren't here! _He_ is so sure of taking the day that he was more than happy to allow us to bring all of our troops to Hogwarts regardless of the fact that it would allow us to fight a pitched battle with his Death Eater Legions, troops which he'll be needing to cement his grasp on power after he has won the victory of which he's so all-fired sure of! _He_ must have the best trick of all time up his bloody sleeve as he's so cocksure that he's going to roll right over Potter! There's more to this situation than meets the eye, you can be sure of that. What are we missing?"

He was on the point of adding something else when Hermione arrived.

"Granger, I was just telling Lupin here that You-Know-Who has decided not to field his magical creatures so far and we're not going to force his hand by having Charlie Weasley's mob mixing it up. Tell him to get his sorry arse over here and when the time comes he can join us and the rest of the dregs in the 6th Phalanx!"

"But…," Hermione started to object.

"Do it now, girl, and be quick about it!"

"Lupin, sod off! You said you'd be keeping Minerva abreast of matters. Let her know that the Auror Phalanxes have just started skirmishing with the Death Eater Legions and that she'd better have the hospital wing all spick and span for the casualties."

Sighing, Moody turned back to survey the seemingly senseless battle which was now being joined by the two opposing sides. He knew he was missing something. You-Know-Who was about to surprise them and they had nothing with which to counter him.

The Order was going to lose.

----------

**19.35 – Monday 16th February 1998**

Wizard war was a complicated business and this fact alone discouraged the larger scale battles so often seen among rival factions in the Muggle world. And just as the Muggles had rules governing the types of weapons and conduct permitted in their conflicts, so did wizardkind. In fact, until this code of conduct had been agreed upon there had never been a magical battle in which any side could claim a clear victory as the fact of the matter was that such combat left few, if any, survivors. When wizardkind went to war, there were no half measures.

Individual troops or loose groups of skirmishers were simply unable to muster enough firepower to breach the magical shield wall of a phalanx of trained magical troops. Only a concentrated knot of witches and wizards could fight a similar body of magic users. Consequently, when the rigidly ordered lines and columns of troops which had existed from the time of ancient Greece had finally been let behind with the end of the Napoleonic Era of Muggle warfare, wizardkind had done what it always did so very well and ignored the pace of change in the outside world.

Ron had got into a conversation with Iain the night before the Aurors had gathered before the castle to await the Death Eater Legions. The huge man had finished top of his class in the History of Magical Conflict whilst at the Auror College in Caerphilly, a subject which his classmates saw as less than necessary and therefore as a chance to catch forty winks. Yet it had been for Iain a real pleasure to study the relatively few set battles in wizard history and to understand the underlying reasons for the actions of both the victors and the vanquished. When Ron had expressed a genuine interest in the subject and had proved to be an attentive listener, the usually taciturn man had mellowed remarkably and had been more than happy to explain the mechanics of wizard warfare to him.

"Just like the Muggles with their spears and shields, we have to work as a unit in order to survive," he had explained as they sat wrapped in their heavy cloaks against the chill evening air. "When two opposing forces close to effective hexing distance, what is it that you think they do?" he had asked with undisguised enthusiasm.

"Er, they start hexing each other?" hazarded Ron.

"Wrong!" replied Iain, apparently very happy to have received such an answer. "They don't hex anything because they can't see a damned thing! Only the first three ranks in any phalanx can do anything to the opposing unit; the remainder of the troops are there to protect the flanks and rear. The first two or three ranks on each side work to do three things at the same time. Do you know what they are?"

"Well, attacking the enemy would have to be one of them," said Ron, stating the obvious and stalling for time to think.

"Logically," was all Knatchbull said by way of confirmation.

"Next, I suppose, would be to defend themselves," stated Ron with a little more confidence this time.

"You're two for two so far, so if you get number three correct I'll be your slave for a month," promised Iain as he leaned back in his broomchair and fixed Ron with an amused look.

"Of course," began Ron, all too conscious of the fact that he had no idea, "They'd, er…well, that's to say…"

"Ron, you may know a lot about Quidditch but you know somewhere between 'sod' and 'all' about fighting! Shielding yourself and your friends is all well and good, but what happens if you're targeted by multiple enemies at the same time?"

"You die?"

"Yup!" confirmed Iain cheerfully. "What about if you don't notice that somebody is targeting you? What happens if their curse is stronger than your shield? What exactly will you do if you're surrounded on all fronts? What…"

"Okay, okay, I get the idea! So what's the answer?"

"Blind them! If they can't see you then can't very well hex you, can they? At the same time as attacking and shielding, you have to find time to blind the enemy. What this means in real life is that you have the first three ranks of any phalanx alternating the spells they are casting at any given time. After casting a hex you should go on to casting a shield and then an obscuring spell. The order in which you do this should be changed every now and then and this rolling effect prevents the enemy from spotting any pattern which they might then exploit."

…

"Sounds complicated," said Ron succinctly as he tried to mentally picture such a chaotic scene.

"It is _horribly_ complicated," agreed Iain seriously. "But if done correctly, and here I do stress the _if_ as it hasn't been practiced much in the past 1,000 years, the enemy can only see an amorphous mass in front of them. Firing hexes into a constantly shifting cloud of _Obscurus_ spells which themselves are hiding massed shielding spells is a colossal waste of time."

"Then how does anyone ever win?" asked a puzzled Ron.

"By flanking the enemy," came the reply. "That's the name of the game, Ron; it always has been and always will be. If you're flanked you're dead as the enemy can concentrate their fire power on a much smaller area and be guaranteed kills."

"Okay then, but what about the Unforgivables? Surely the Death Eaters will be flinging those about like there's no tomorrow and you can't shield against them!"

"True, but they're crap in a fight nonetheless," said Iain. After a few moments it occurred to him that Ron hadn't yet responded. He looked up to find the youngster open mouthed and goggle eyed.

"B-But…," Ron stammered, his breath showing as a steamy plume in the air.

"Bloody Hell, Ron, it's me who looks like the pea-brained Neanderthal, not you! The Unforgivables are by and large terror weapons to be used on a sunny day at the caster's leisure and they're about as much use as a chocolate teapot on the battlefield. If you want to try and use the Imperius Curse on a target you can't see then good luck to you! First of all, it takes a few seconds to impose your will over that of your target and that's when your ears aren't on fire from an enemy's hex. Next, you need to communicate to your victim exactly what it is that you want them to do. If you can do that over tens of metres when you're surrounded by dozens of screaming witches an wizards then you're a better man than me!

"The Cruciatus Curse pretty much finds itself in the same boat and for much the same reasons. Just how long do you think you'd be able to maintain it when hundreds of hexes were coming your way every minute? You need to maintain the curse for more than a few measly seconds if you want to incapacitate your target. Remember, that you need to have line of sight to your target and that's a luxury which you almost never have on the wizard battlefield!"

"And the _other_ one?" whispered Ron.

"_Avada Kedavra_ is a different kettle of fish, admittedly," said Knatchbull with a wan smile. "It can't be shielded against and it's difficult to miss if you're aiming at a block of two hundred people. However, the Killing Curse falls into the same category as area-effect spells."

"Which is?" sighed Ron as he discovered yet another area into which his ignorance extended.

"Don't scratch my back and I won't scratch yours!" said Iain with raised eyebrows. "You-Know-Who may scare anyone with two brain cells to rub together, but when the Death Eater Legions face us tomorrow they'll be more scared of us."

"What do you mean?"

"If they start chucking the Killing Curse around how do you think we'll react?"

"But…it's illegal; you can't do that, can you?"

"Really, and just who do you think is going to arrest us?"

…

"Point taken," said Ron, "but could you _do_ that?"

"How many times have you killed, lad?"

"Twice," was the terse reply.

"Tell me, if you can, what the difference is between the type of dead you get from _Avada Kedavra_ and the type you get from _Diffindo_, for example," said Iain as his eyes bored into Ron's.

"None, I suppose."

"You suppose correctly. When we go into battle tomorrow there will be not one whit of difference between us, Ron. We'll both be scared for our lives and I guarantee you that we'd both climb over the backs of our own dear sweet grandmothers to survive. If the Death Eaters use anything ridiculous we'll reply in kind and they know it. I can't promise that they won't but it really is unlikely as they'll be raining down fire on their own heads. Half of the Aurors here have been practising the Unforgivables and area-effect blasting curses just in case and the Death Eaters know it. It'll be a relatively fair fight tomorrow."

"At two-to-one odds!" cried Ron.

Knatchbull laughed and clapped his enormous hand down on Ron's shoulder with a not-inconsiderable measure of sympathy: the poor lad looked stunned. Best to take his mind off it, he thought to himself.

"So what d'you reckon to the Birkdale Birdies this year, then?"

----------

**08.30 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

"_When in Rome, do as the Romans do!"_

Ron was glad he had taken Jerry's cheerful advice from earlier this morning and had hung a water skin around his neck in imitation of the Aurors surrounding him. His throat was already parched and raw from the near endless repetition of the two spells Bob had so far allowed him to use. He was sandwiched between the little man and Jerry and was pathetically grateful for the fact that he was. Nothing could have prepared him for what he had seen this morning and according to Jerry they had just been skirmishing so far.

Just as they had marched out to meet the Death Eater Legions, the clock tower had struck eight bells. Perhaps it had been his imagination, but Ron thought that the sound of each toll of the bell sounded deeper and more ominous that it usually did. Once that bell had marked the divisions between classes but now it divided peace from battle. They were moving south from the castle with the Forbidden Forest to their left and the Great Lake to their right. Ron thought that his heart was the loudest sound in the vicinity as he could hear precious little over its hammering. There was a light chilly breeze stirring the air but it made little in the way noise as it noiselessly through the myriad of tangled branches. Likewise, the footsteps of the five hundred or so Aurors were muffled by the springy surface of the moor over which they marched. It seemed as if the very land about them held its breath in anticipation of what was to come.

The Death Eaters were to be seen quite clearly a mile in the distance as they emerged from the bottom of the Forbidden Forest. The gentle slope which led down from the castle allowed the Aurors to see the full extent of the forces arrayed before them and it was not a pretty sight. At least ten Death Eater Legions could be made out and there were a very great number of black robed figures to be seen milling around behind them. It looked as if the estimates had been correct and that they were indeed outnumbered two-to-one. Still, there was nothing to be done about it now and the lie of the land favoured the Aurors in that only three phalanxes from each side would be able to face each other at any given time. Ron had been quite cheerful about this fact until Bob had taken malicious glee in pointing out that no flanking would result in a war of attrition which the Order could only lose. Git!

Ron was located in the centre of the front rank of the 1st Auror Phalanx which put him on the left flank of the Order's forces. Jerry was to his left, Bob was on his right and beyond him were Winifred Drinkwater and Iain in his broomchair. He felt much better knowing he would be surrounded by such people and he blinked back tears at the strong feelings for them which threatened to overcome him. Now that amiable man was a stone-faced tower of wrath at his side and Ron was never sure if he had ever actually got to know the real Jerry Puddicombe. Even less familiar was Bob who, decked out as he was in a peculiar harness which housed a whole host of offensive potions, appeared to be glowering at the enemy ranks with cold hate in his eyes and to be possessed of an urgent desire to do violence.

As the distance steadily closed between the 1st Phalanx and the facing Death Eater Legion, both sides began to limber up. Bolts of light of every conceivable colour were sent up into the grey sky as witches and wizards tested their wand arms and their tongues. Still it didn't seem to be real, however, as Ron concentrated on keeping in step and on controlling his breathing.

It was when the first _Obscurus_ spells were cast just seconds before the battle began in earnest that it finally hit home. Ron was going to be casting this strange charm alternatively with _Protego_ in an attempt to offer overlapping protection for the Aurors to his sides and behind him. It was his job to keep cycling these two spells whilst those around him waited for their chance to cast an offensive curse or hex from behind his interference. As the cone of darkness erupted from his wand he marvelled as it rapidly extended to about twelve metres in length. Although it was entirely insubstantial it wobbled in its endless gyration and resembled nothing more than a fat, black jet of water which widened into a flat circle at the end. The idea was that both sides would attempt to prevent the enemy from seeing any part of their respective troop formations for more than an instant.

It worked.

Almost simultaneously, dozens of these black cones erupted from the two opposing forces. Ron's skin crawled as he saw the first of them juddering towards him, even though he knew them to be perfectly harmless. They put him in mind of the legs of one of the hated Acromantulas which had come so close to killing him and Harry in their second year. As he used both of his hands and considerable effort on the part of his shoulders and back to direct his own wavering _Obscurus_, he blinked as what looked like a hosepipe of darkness washed across him. It was gone again after a few moments but as the daylight washed back over him he winced at its unexpected harshness. He could see how such a reaction would interfere with anyone's attempt to throw a hex accurately.

"_Protego!"_ he yelled and not a moment too soon. An unwholesome looking bright orange hex crashed into his shield, ricocheted and screeched up into the sky.

"What complete and utter knob is chucking _Febrilus_ around in a fight?" shouted an incredulous Bob. "What are they trying to do, put me in bed with a nasty temperature?" With this he had launched his own bone breaker curse into the hazy wall of darkness facing him.

It was the feeling of helplessness which was the worst thing for Ron. If he could see his enemy, be it somebody with a wand or a horribly dangerous magical creature, he felt that he would be in control of his fate. When he had to trust to blind luck, though, it was ten times as worse. When he had played his magical chess battle in the First Year in order to protect the Philosopher's Stone there had been every possibility that he would lose. However, as he was controlling his chess pieces he felt as if he had been unassailable. Now here he was, right in the middle of the front rank of the 1st Auror Phalanx, facing an immense horde of homicidal maniacs and he couldn't even see where he was going!

"_Obscurus!"_ he yelled for the umpteenth time.

As the dark rotating cone welled up from the tip of his wand, he felt his entire body tense as he heard the unmistakable hiss of an approaching hex. Despite the enormous quantity of spells being thrown around willy-nilly by both sides, not one in fifty penetrated the shields to come near the ranks of the enemy.

_**Vvvvvut**_

Suddenly Ron was blinking and coughing. He had the presence of mind to keep his focus on maintaining the _Obscurus_ spell even as he scrubbed at his face with his left hand. Spitting and gagging at the same time, he managed to clear his eyes enough to see what had happened. The left side of his body and the right side of Jerry's were a solid block of red: blood. The curse had passed obliquely between the two of them to hit the witch standing directly behind Ron. He glanced down at her before tearing his eyes away just as fast as he was able. He had seen the gleam of fresh white bone on her…

"Ron!" barked Jerry, himself spitting out the coppery taste of her blood. "Pay attention, you arse!"

Both Jerry and Bob nodded with grim satisfaction as Ron's next shielding charm proved to be particularly strong and durable.

----------

**08.50 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

"**_1st Phalanx, Auror Regiment…prepare for contact!"_** came the magically amplified voice of Iain.

"Ron, go for it!" urged a tense Bob.

He had been told that this would happen, but know he found that he wasn't looking forward to it as much as before. When the _Obscurus_ spells began to graze the third rank it meant that they were about to lock horns with the enemy, that they were now a scant few metres from physical contact with Death Eaters! According to the history books this is where the vast majority of casualties were inflicted. Order always broke down and the two opposing forces would devolve into a mêlée in which potions, poisoned blades and the nastier hexes exacted a high toll of blood.

Iain Knatchbull had approached Winifred Drinkwater with an idea about how to avoid this slaughter. It had taken him most of the night to wear her down, but finally she saw the merit of the risky plan. She simply could not afford to fight the Death Eaters at close quarters as they would win by simple attrition. Iain's plan was based on a half-forgotten war game from his time at Caerphilly and if it worked he might just live long enough to tell Benjamin Parr, his old History of Magical Conflict instructor.

"**_3rd Rank, 1st Phalanx…move up!"_** he bellowed.

As drilled, the first rank fell flat on their fronts and let rip with an astonishing quantity and range of curses and hexes – anything to momentarily distract the enemy. Simultaneously, the second rank moved to kneel directly behind their counterparts and proceeded to join them in a display of concentrated magic the likes of which no living had ever seen before. Finally, the third rank filled the gaps in between the prone figures and did nothing but produce magical shields.

At first the highly concentrated firing line seemed to be making a difference. Fully half of the enemy's _Obscurus_ spells wavered and then dissipated as their casters were hit by the veritable barrage of hostile fire directed at them. However, much to the Death Eater Legion's credit they soon rallied and tried to emulate the tactic of the Auror Phalanx. Even though they had lost a great many of their number, those to the rear of their formation moved up to take the places of their fallen comrades.

As Ron lay on the fragrant moor he was so intent on throwing all of his power into his hexes that he had failed to notice the thistle which had bloodied his cheek as he dropped to the ground. The heavily perfumed girl who had been kneeling on his left leg had been thrown back by a Killing Curse only to be replaced by a determined man twice her size, yet still Ron did not notice. As the witches and wizards from the third rank settled into place and produced their shields the resulting pyrotechnic display as all manner of curses and hexes attempted to batter their way through failed to register as he poured his fear into his own spells.

"**_3rd Rank, 1st Phalanx…execute!"_** roared Iain.

The trap snapped shut.

In a highly risky move the witches and wizards of the third rank changed their shields from convex to concave. The former afforded the caster the maximum amount of protection by curving around them from both sides and thereby protecting his or her flanks. The latter, however, did exactly the opposite and curved away from the caster and towards the enemy. This left the witch or wizard exposed to any fire which did not come from directly in front of them. The advantage of such a gamble was that it caught enemy hexes and reflected them back in the general direction from which they had come.

It was by no means perfect which was demonstrated by the fact that in those few short murderous moments a good many of the Aurors from the last three ranks had to move up to take the place of their fallen brethren. Nevertheless, no matter how much the Aurors suffered the Death Eaters suffered tenfold - it was slaughter plain and simple. The weight of fire from the first two ranks of Aurors coupled with the reflected hexes which scythed back into the ranks of the Death Eater Legion laid waste to the all before them. In a little over a minute over four hundred Death Eaters were either killed or incapacitated.

"**_1st Phalanx, Auror Regiment…reform!"_**

As the Aurors regained their original formation it soon became apparent that there were only enough of them left to form five solid ranks. That meant there were approximately thirty witches and wizards who had paid for this victory with their lives. In view of the Death Eaters who either littered the ground before them or who were fleeing for their very lives, it was a small price to pay. As Winifred Drinkwater used her two-way mirror to communicate with Sigmund Green and co-ordinate their next manoeuvres, her unit moved to occupy the space of the vanquished Death Eater Legion. Just as they began to wheel to the right in order to flank the second formation of Death Eaters and the battle seemed to be going their way, disaster struck.

**09.00 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

Ron blinked away the green light which seemed to bathe his eyes no matter where he looked. As its baleful tinge faded and the ringing in his ears subsided somewhat, he could see that he was trembling uncontrollably. The strange thing was that although he could see his sleeveless red-raw arms twitching out of control, he couldn't feel them.

"Weird," he mumbled vaguely to no-one in particular.

Looking to his left and right he could see steam rising from the blackened Gorse bushes of the moor. They were desiccated and their black skeletal remains disintegrated into a fine ash whenever an Auror in the throes of pain brushed against them. He could see several people desperately beating at the flames burning brightly on their clothes and in their hair. Raising his wand in a clumsy hand, he doused the nearest one in a jet of water as he staggered to his feet.

The acrid stench of burnt hair assailed his flaring nostrils and he raised his unfeeling left hand to his head. It came away sticky with congealing brown blood and wisps of his scorched hair. Bald again…great! Never mind, Moody would be pleased. Hermione wouldn't like it, though; nothing smelt quite as bad as burning hair. He should probably take a shower before he saw her again.

As his shocked mind wandered the paths of incoherency, one fact called his attention back to reality. Why weren't Bob and Jerry there? Looking on the ground either side of him he could see that there were perfectly circular areas of healthy grass. In fact, there were a number of such green spots to be seen up and down the ranks; the legacy of those few Aurors who had been quick enough to shield themselves from the _Solarus_ blasting hex. His head swimming and his legs threatening to rebel, Ron sat down heavily on the moor and tried to focus his eyes on the chaos to his right.

With a number of the other more experienced Aurors, Jerry Puddicombe and of Bob Choeke had twitched their wands at the sight of the bright flare shooting up into the sky from the centre Death Eater Legion. As it reached its apogee and arched down towards them, shields had seemed the order of the day. It had all happened so quickly that they had had no time to shout out warnings. '_Think quickly, Act simply, Strike first_' was the motto of the Aurors. As the few who had survived the horrific curse relatively unscathed surged towards the enemy's flank as one, they were the very embodiment of this philosophy. Though they had not exchanged a single word, those few witches and wizards were all thinking the same thought: _distract the enemy, give the others a chance to recover_.

"Bob!" shouted Jerry as he forced his muscular body to its maximum speed.

"What?" replied his more rapid friend who was bouncing to the left and right in an attempt to make himself a more difficult target.

"Bet your hair smells of smoke now!"

His only reply came by way of a two-fingered gesture.

Snatching a glance to both sides, Jerry saw that there were perhaps a dozen Aurors accompanying them on their mad charge. No words were necessary as they hit the limit of the _Obscurus_ spells – maximum disruption was what they needed if the 1st Phalanx had any hope of defending itself.

Bob eschewed his wand in favour of the wicked potions he tugged out of his fighting harness in rapid succession. He simply threw them towards the large unseen mass of Death Eaters, confident that they would inflict a great deal of damage. They were all of them highly illegal potions which would variously scatter acid clouds, poisonous fumes, hallucinogenic rain and liquid fire over a wide area. Let the scum have a taste of their own medicine, he thought to himself with grim satisfaction.

Jerry, meanwhile, was sporting a wand in each of his hands. It was extremely difficult to successfully cast the same spell simultaneously from twinned wands and furthermore it was highly inaccurate to do so. Given the current circumstances, however, these were perhaps the least of his worries.

"_Bombarda!"_ he cried repeatedly as his wands swept wide arcs over the estimated positions of the Death Eaters. To either side of the two friends, the remaining Aurors were performing similar actions with reckless abandon.

Under the magically amplified orders of Winifred Drinkwater, the 1st Phalanx was rapidly reordering its lines and preparing to exact revenge. Ron had been hauled to his feet by the fat bloodied Auror behind him who had also fetched him a stinging slap across the back of his head.

"Focus, lad! You're no use to anyone if you're not paying attention!"

Under the slightly thinning veil of _Obscurus_ spells issuing forth from the ranks of the Death Eater Legion, he could both see a muted palette of colours flashing and feel his ears popping under successive concussion waves. All hell was breaking loose under there.

"**_1st Phalanx, Auror Regiment…forward march!"_**

**09.10 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

Jerry sat cross legged on the moor. The front of his robes was covered with the vomit which still adorned his chin. His pupils were dilated and his responses to Bob's comments were slow. As his friend thrust a water skin into his mouth a little life did return to his face.

"Iain'll take this hard," said Bob as he quickly tied off a bandage around Jerry's wand arm. His fingers were already slippery with his friend's blood.

"He'll get over it," Jerry replied distantly. "It's about time he started enjoying life and coaching Quidditch in any case. Got any fire potions left?"

"Here, I've got two," Bob said handing them over. He snapped a tiny vial under his friend's nose and watched with narrowed eyes as some semblance of fire rekindled there.

"This is it, I suppose," remarked Jerry as he cast an eye over the state of play.

The two of them were currently hidden by a thin haze of ash from the scorched plants of the moor which had been stirred up by the 1st Phalanx and carried towards them on a light breeze. There was no way on earth the two of them would be able to cross the open land between the two opposing forces without being taken out by the Death Eaters. Likewise, there was little possibility that they could evade the attentions of the black robed pricks if they stayed where they were. Besides, there was always the risk that the maniac who had launched the _Solarus_ flare would recover their strength in time to launch another one. That above all other things had to be avoided. Taking a deep breath, Jerry looked at Bob and saw that they were both of the same mind.

"Shall we hug then?" said the little man with a mirthless grin as he raised his head to keep an eye on the now visible Death Eaters on the flank.

"Sod off, you poof!" laughed Jerry grimly as he finished gauging the weight of his potions for a more accurate cast. He wouldn't have much time to bring them all into play. He looked over at his best friend who was for once looking tired and defeated. The bright blood showed through clearly on all of his bandages, and there were a great many of those on his small frame.

They clasped hands and looked into one another's eyes.

"I'm glad it happened when I was with you," said Jerry.

"You go first with shields up and I'll jump the first file and do what I can," said Bob gruffly, unable to meet his friend's eyes.

With this, he rose up on the balls of his feet and started to make his way towards the centre of the Death Eater Legion's flank through the thinning haze. Jerry loped ahead of him and stayed slightly to his left lest he block his friend's view. The big Auror waited until the first Death Eater noticed them before throwing the two fire potions directly in front of him. Closing his eyes against the blinding flash and searing heat, he barrelled into the mass of black robed bodies with frantic energy. As his body and shield bowled over three of scum, Bob nipped over them all and went on in amongst the ranks of their comrades to cause whatever mischief he could.

"_Bombarda! Everte Statem! Avada Kedavra!"_

There were shouts of alarm as a billowing green mist blinded unprotected eyes and scorched mouths, throats and lungs to the point of suffocation. A white flash over the heads of the Death Eaters rained down a wide spray of incandescent droplets which burned through whatever they touched. The ordered files and ranks began to break down as You-Know-Who's servants sought to create space around themselves in order to identify the threat.

"_Martilus!"_

Jerry had just thrown a Death Eater into a knot of his friends when he was felled by the curse known as the Hammer. His head snapped forward and collapsed bonelessly to the floor just as Bellatrix Lestrange stalked out of the ranks of the troops under her command.

"What's the matter with you all?" she screeched. "He's only an Auror and a dead one at that!" she added as she kicked Jerry in the face.

Two burly men emerged from the ranks dragging the limp form of Bob between them. They dropped him at their commander's feet before shying away from the murderous expression on her face. Her face twisted into the parody of a smile as she saw that Bob was still alive and squirming in pain. She was white with fatigue as she knelt down beside him and brushed a strand of hair away from his eyes.

"You're an ugly little one, aren't you?" she crooned. "By the time I've finished flaying the skin off your repugnant body, I should be ready to cast _Solarus_ on your friends again. Won't that be nice?" she goaded.

"You know one thing which they taught us in Auror College which you were obviously never taught when you were _under_ Lucius Malfoy?" he panted with some difficulty, yet managing to stress the clearly carnal inference of 'under'.

"What would that be, little boy?" she hissed, grinding her wand into his jugular. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing that his well chosen words had infuriated her, she fought to maintain a calmly cruel expression on her face.

"If you love life, kill your wounded enemy," he whispered, thrusting the bodkin he had drawn from his boot into the base of her neck with a sickening crunch.

Before any one of the white masked figures surrounding him could lift a finger in revenge, the world turned red. Using the slight hesitation on the part of the Death Eaters to their full advantage, Drinkwater and Green had co-ordinated their counter attack by way of their enchanted mirrors. Those Aurors who had survived the _Solarus_ and who could manage to do so launched volley after volley of hexes at the Death Eater Legion. This time there were no shielding spells; every wand was given over to the attack.

The deaths inflicted on the ranks of the enemy were staggering as the crossfire of multi-coloured bolts scythed through their ranks. Bob watched with detached interest as the puffs of red mist foretold the fall of each of the figures he could see. Within an instant the wave of light passed on and he lay still and drowsy among the other unmoving bodies. As the dark stain of crimson spread further from his battered and dying body, he turned his head to see Jerry again. He found that his head wouldn't move so he instead stared at the grey sky until his eyes drifted shut.

**09.20 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

Gone.

Jerry and Bob, they were gone.

Ron hadn't been able to see their final attack but he had seen its result as the Death Eater Legion had stalled in its deadly assault and had failed to press home the temporary advantage it enjoyed over the two mauled Auror Phalanxes. As those around him had reorganised themselves and had turned the tide against the murderers before them, Ron had stood unmoving, desperately straining his eyes for any hint of his friends through black haze of ash.

None had come.

When the Legion had first wilted and then routed under the combined fire of the remnants of the 1st and 2nd Phalanxes, he had looked to the myriad of prone bodies. Surely they were there, pretending to be dead whilst waiting for the chance to rejoin their friends. While some movement showed the presence of those who were wounded as opposed to dead, the two men he had come to consider friends couldn't possibly be among them. They were dead.

They had died…had gone willingly to their deaths…to protect their fellow Aurors. They had reacted to the enemy attack and had gone forward whilst Ron had been flat on his back like a helpless little First Year. They might even have died before he had regained consciousness. His face puckered in anger as the familiar but long repressed anger surged up in his chest. He hadn't been able to help his Dad or Henri Delacour when they had sprung a trap at Bill's wedding. He had been lying in a hospital bed with soft cotton cheeks tucked up to his chin when Hermione had lost her arm to an enormous magical beast. He was here, surrounded by the cream of wizardkind's armed forces, when Harry was waiting all alone in the cold and dark for Voldemort. He was alive. Bob and Jerry were…

"Dead," he murmured as marched directly out from the front rank towards the massed ranks of the ten Death Eater Legions in the middle distance.

"Dead," he repeated as he broke into a run, all the while ignoring the shouts from behind him.

"Dead, dead, dead, dead," he repeated over and over as he jumped over the endless sea of bodies robed in black as his unseeing eyes reflected the awesome sight of the massed Death Eater army.

Of the nine remaining legions which were not yet directly involved in the deadly conflict, six were in direct line of sight. Neatly arranged in three files of four Legions at the beginning of the battle, he could now see that the loss of two of those blocks meant nothing to the eventual outcome. They would run down all those before them with their Dark magic and dishonourable ways. The vast majority of them were probably Slytherin alumni – wankers! As he trotted closer to the empty space left by the two routed phalanxes of Death Eaters, Ron slowly came to a halt. Even the 3rd Auror Phalanx seemed to have ceased fighting the opposing Death Eaters and near silence reigned on the purple-grey moor between the lake and the Forbidden Forest.

This pathetic wretch, this _flea_ which had the temerity to stand before the might of the Dark Lord's soldiery was regarded and dismissed. The uniform ranks of figures shrouded in white masks and black robes turned their eyes back up the slight slope to the feeble forces of the enemy who were naught but grist for their master's mill. The feeble scrapings from the Ministry of Magic would be utterly destroyed and today would mark the beginning of _His_ dominion over the world.

Blood ran from Ron's mouth as his clenched jaw ground his already broken teeth together. His lips were drawn back in a snarl which robbed him of his humanity and reduced him to the level of a feral animal. He had given himself over to the black rage which had always lain banked in his chest, waiting for its chance to throw free the shackles of youth and civilisation. Just as other people were gifted with natural talents, Ronald Weasley had always been a pillar of hatred and rage.

"They are all dead…and so are all of you," he said, raising his hand.

"_**ASTILLATUS!"**_

"_**Astillatus!"**_

"_Astillatus!"_

The bright blue pulse of light which the incantation brought forth rocked him on his heels. The fading echoes of his own magically augmented voice went unnoticed as he frowned and tensed his shoulders, intent as he was on maintaining his grip on his bucking wand. The Auror Phalanxes, which could no longer discern the grey garbed figure of Ron in the dim light of this late winter's day, looked nervously about at this most recent development: surprises on a battlefield were almost always unwelcome.

Only Hermione Granger had borne witness to Harry Potter's unbelievably powerful Patronus when they had used the Time Turner to save Sirius from the Dementors of Azkaban. Like that mighty spell, Ron's curse was a slow moving wedge of bright blue which expanded out in concentric arcs to smash into the ranks of the Death Eater Legions. His face gradually slackened into a dreamy look of unconcern as he poured all of his anger, desire to live and energy into it. His breathing slowed as each of the pulses buffeted his body to and fro.

As the tip of his wand traced a lazy line from left to right, the same curse which had crippled his brother Percy tore into the Death Eaters without mercy. The ranks and files which had the poor fortune to be facing the red-headed psychopath were felled in sequential waves like so many dominoes. Each new pulse of blue light augured the doom of scores of Voldemort's lackeys. His vision faded and began to close in from the sides in tandem with the painful thudding of his slowing heart. The last thing Ron would see was the wand disintegrating in his hand as he desperately fought to maintain his hold over the curse.

With no one to witness the end to this life, Ron's arm flopped limply to his side. He slowly fell to his knees as he lost what little control he had exercised over his body. The final few beats of his overtaxed heart found him kneeling alone in the middle of the moor. His hair had been burned away and he was a mess of dried blood and red flash-burned flesh. Slowly, he fell forward into oblivion.

**09.20 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

Winifred Drinkwater lowered the arm which had shielded her eyes from the painfully bright light. Even having had the strange bright light directed away from her, it had left her with purple spots plaguing her vision.

She turned a blank face to Iain who could find no words to express the shock he was feeling. From their elevated position they could see that the six Death Eater legions had been hollowed out. The remaining four were arrayed along the back and right side of the battlefield and would require time to bring themselves together in a formation capable of lending mutual support. That would require time – time which could be used profitably.

"For Merlin's sake, what the bloody hell was that?" he gasped.

"This could still go either way!" rasped Winifred as she raised her mirror to call up the reserve Phalanx commanders.

----------


	26. We Two, Part 2

**Chapter 26 - We Two, Part 2**

"_And we two, spinning our little life mostly by rote, seldom with clear cognizance, seldom with firm intent, were products of a sick world."_

_W. Olaf Stapledon, Starmaker (1937)_

**07.40 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived, protector of the Philosopher's Stone, Tri-Wizards Champion and rebel against the Ministry of Magic stood alone in the chill dankness of the gloomy chamber. He repeatedly ran his tongue over his front teeth and the numb area inside his mouth, a legacy of his encounter with the guardian of the volcano Horcrux. As he did so, the white plume which his lungs sent forth with each breath held him mesmerised and he let his thoughts wander where they would.

It had surprised nobody more than him, he reflected, when he had awoken from a light sleep in the small hours of the morning feeling the need to…_prepare_…himself for the day ahead. Never had he been one for pomp and ceremony, but the gravity of the occasion seemed to demand of him a certain reverence. He had, in short, felt it fitting to dress properly in the only uniform he had ever respected – that of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

He had been perfectly comfortable and surprisingly calm as he spent the few remaining hours of the night in the cleaning and repair of his neglected school clothes. He was no great shakes with a needle and thread and therefore had no reservations about using magic, but for the most part he worked in the Muggle way. One of the few times he had ever been relatively content whilst living with the Dursleys had been on Sunday afternoons. It was then when he had attended to his regular chore of polishing the footwear for the entire family. Vernon Dursley was nothing if not a man who both valued and demanded a shiny shoe. He believed you could separate the world into two categories: those with and those without shiny shoes. There was no need for him to state which group he thought to be the lesser of the two.

As he shifted his gaze slightly to look at his own highly polished toecaps, Harry's mouth twitched as he remembered hiding his eagerness to begin the task lest it be detected by Uncle Vernon and taken away from him. It had been the quietest part of the week as the Dursleys were traditionally occupied and had little interest in distracting the boy if he was gainfully employed in what they saw as boring manual labour. Whilst Aunt Petunia had tried to coax Dudley into at least pretending to pay attention as she did his homework for him, Uncle Vernon would sit in his Sunday best watching that dreary programme featuring elderly people singing hymns in church. It was to this backdrop of drab songs of praise and Dudley's whingeing that he had slowly and methodically applied the black and brown shoe polish to the numerous pairs of shoes which his relatives possessed.

First he would use one of Aunt Petunia's old scouring pads to strip the old polish from the leather before going on to the apply a fresh layer. This he would do by wetting the shoes and then using a scrap of old towel to scoop the pungent paste from the tin before smearing it on in ever decreasing circles. Next a scrap of old hand towel would be used to smooth the polish evenly over the shoe before finally buffing it to a brilliant shine with a yellow duster. As he produced pair after pair of immaculate shoes, Uncle Vernon showed his approval in the only way he knew how: silence. Cold would be the day in Hell before he offered even grudging approval to his nephew.

Harry sighed.

As he looked down, unaccustomed as he was to the dull shine of his ordinarily scuffed shoes, he wished that everything in life could be as simple. For the all too brief time which he had spent on knotting his tie, tying his shoelaces and smoothing the front of his robes, he had been content. Now he was alone in the dark with nothing to distract his mind from the coming horror except to worry himself sick about his friends. They would be marching out to meet the Death Eater Legions right about now with the sole purpose of giving him a chance to face Voldemort on terms of the Order's choosing. So many innocent lives sacrificed in order to lull Tom Riddle into a false sense of security, he thought disbelievingly. That wasn't something he could do in a thousand years and it had been sheer folly to entertain the notion that he could be an Auror, he thought to himself.

Concentrating on the ever tightening bands which sought to squeeze the air out of his chest, he sought to distract himself from the tonnes of rock and soil separating him from the fresh air and daylight. No matter how bad he felt about being trapped underground, however, it was nothing compared to the uncanny presence of that hated arch behind him. When last he had laid eyes on it, Sirius had just fallen foul of its gaping, insatiable maw. He had so far managed to avoid looking at it, yet its very existence mocked him. Trapped between a rock and a hard place? Try being sandwiched between the veil and a door which could only open if commanded to do so by a Parselmouth!

He had hoped never to see the Chamber of Secrets again as long as he lived. Truth be told, just about anywhere would have sufficed to face Voldemort. This frigid pit in the bowels of the castle had been chosen over his head and wishes, however. First of all, and perhaps most importantly, it was a remote location. Better that nobody ran the risk of stumbling across what promised to be a brief yet deadly encounter, was the general consensus. More importantly, though, was the fact that the door would only open to one who spoke Parseltongue. As far as anyone was aware, the only two people walking the earth today who qualified were The Boy Who Lived and You Know Who. If Harry had received a Galleon for every time he had been summoned from his classes by Ministry officials in the aftermath of his confrontation with the teenaged Riddle to either open of close the damned door, he would have been able to buy Hogwarts Castle and its grounds in their entirety.

Taking a final cleansing breath and steeling himself for what lay ahead, he brought up his right hand to regard his wand. It was strange how something you saw everyday soon ceased to register, how the most essential of items became mundane and unnoticed given enough time. Without his wand he was nothing and it was his purchase of this very item which had marked his transition from the Muggle world to the infinitely more satisfying one of magic. This small piece of Holly represented the three most important things in his life; no Dursleys, freedom and friends. Ever since the Tri-Wizards Tournament when he had been caught out by Mr Ollivander with a dirty wand, he had taken better care of it. That probably had more to do with the fact that he knew he would one day be facing Voldemort than the displeasure of the now missing wand manufacturer.

Shifting his attention to his left hand, he hefted the comfortable weight of Helga Hufflepuff's small golden cup. It was heavy for its size but Harry wasn't sure if that was due to its being made, at least in part, of gold or that it contained a fragment of Voldemort's soul. The centuries which had passed between the creation of the cup and its coming into Harry's possession had not served to dim or tarnish the badger engraved onto its surface. Indeed, it might have come fresh from the engraver's workbench so sharp were the lines of the rearing animal.

Whilst he had nothing but respect for the House of Hufflepuff, he thought the cup to be a little…_unassuming_…in comparison to the other Horcruxes. The teenage Tom Riddle's diary had at first appeared to be harmless enough, but had soon revealed its deadly nature. Sitting in a glass case in Headmistress McGonagall's office, and broken though it was, the black stoned ring of Marvolo Gaunt still had a menacing air about it. Likewise, the knowledge that the heavy gold locket had once belonged to Salazar Slytherin imbued the item with a tangible menace, missing though it was and it went without saying that Nagini too was a more than a little imposing. There was still the question of the unknown Horcrux which was most probably something that had once belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw as he thought it highly unlikely that Voldemort would covet something of Godric Gryffindor's. Still, there was little point in speculating about what was out of his hands and he didn't imagine it would have any bearing on what was to come. He had all but accepted the inevitable and as a consequence he found himself to be disinterested in the future ramifications of missing Horcruxes.

Voldemort was sure to be approaching at this very moment through the castle which had been deliberately emptied against such an eventuality. Not only did the Order not wish to lose any more of its members to You Know Who, but they also did not want to impede his access to the Chamber of Secrets in any way. Should he think he was walking into some form of trap, he might well summon a number of his Death Eaters which would only serve to complicate matters further. This was between the Boy Who Lived and his nemesis, nobody else.

Harry finally turned a baleful eye to the hated stone archway of the veil. It stood upon the same stone dais which had supported it the first time Harry had laid eyes on it and it struck him again just how ancient and fragile it seemed to be. It looked as if one good kick would bring it crashing down in uneven lumps and he idly wondered just how the condemned prisoners had been restrained as they had been forced through the arch to their deaths. He supposed that if they hadn't had their arms and legs chained then they might well have desperately clung on to the arch or the veil in a last ditch effort to save themselves from whatever awaited them on the other side.

In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

"Let's see how you like this, Tom," he murmured as he drew back his left arm.

**07.55 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

Harry grunted with the sheer effort he put behind sending the Horcrux winging towards its target. As it turned end over end, the cup traced a flattened arc on its journey into the centre of the veil. He blinked and missed its transition from this world to whatever lay on the other side of the black surface. What he didn't miss and indeed would have needed to be deaf and blind to have done so was the entirely unexpected side effect of destroying a part of Voldemort's soul in such a manner.

A split second after the cup disappeared, a shockwave burst out from the confines of the veil to knock him flat on his back. As he shook his head and worked his jaw to clear his popping ears, Harry raised himself up on his elbows to check that the veil was still in one piece. Fortunately it was and he watched, transfixed, as a misty form slowly rose from the space contained by the arch. After a few seconds it seemed to resolve itself into the indistinct form of a human man, desperately struggling to escape the pull of an unseen force. Despite the efforts of the phantasmal arms which seemed to be straining against ancient pitted stone of the arch, the figure was drawn inexorably back and slowly disappeared beneath the fluttering veil suspended from the pointed archway. Whilst Harry had previously been feeling detached and disinterested in the course of events, it surely wasn't the case now. What he had just witnessed left him feeling like he had been fetched a stinging slap on his face.

Hastily picking himself up from the cold, hard flagstones and rubbing his throbbing elbows, Harry looked around the Chamber as if expecting Voldemort to swoop down like an avenging wraith. He held his breath and for long moments stood stock-still as he strained his senses to the utmost. Waiting for the repercussions of this action put him in mind of a time he had dropped a plate in Aunt Petunia's pristine kitchen. It had been the middle of the night and he had been ravenous enough to dare the journey past his uncle's and aunt's bedroom door. With the vast quantities of food needed to satisfy the two beefy Dursley men, he knew that if he took only a tiny amount of whatever there was to hand in the fridge then a few mouthfuls might well go unmissed.

Taking a good five minutes to creep down the stairs, his face had lit up in more ways than one when he had finally eased the door to the fridge open. Dudley must have invited some of his friends to tea judging by the veritable hillocks of party food in there. Surely if he ate just one spoonful of each of the plates then he would be stuffed to the point of bursting. Quietly teasing a spoon out of the drawer next to the sink, he chose a plate containing the remaining half of a glistening red jelly. The quivering ruby mound seemed to move in time to his thudding heart and his mouth was watering at the sight of it.

It was then, at the moment of his triumph that disaster struck. As he carefully turned to gently deposit the coveted jelly on the kitchen table, his thumb slipped on a drop of water on the side of the plate and it fell to the floor. The resulting crash, which would have been loud enough by day, was thunderous in the quiet of the night. He still remembered to this day the force with which he had screwed his eyes shut, determined to convince himself in the few seconds remaining to him before the arrival of his roaring uncle that it hadn't happened and had in fact all been a dream.

The worst thing about the subsequent month of punishments was the nagging sense of self-reproach. He knew full well that what he had done _was_ wrong, of course, and to be sure he had been hungry. However, in spite of knowing what would happen if the Dursleys discovered his theft, he had been stupid enough to go ahead with it anyway. The sense of injustice which he ordinarily felt throughout the period of his extended punishments was not there to protect him this time as there was no one to blame but himself.

In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

Without warning, the low reverberating thud of the retracting bolts on the enormous door brought him back to reality with a jolt.

He was here.

**08.05 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

Harry positioned himself with his back to the veil so he was looking down the long promenade which led to the great door. At regular intervals on either side of the damp flagstones were the sinister snake heads which added so much to the menacing atmosphere of Salazar Slytherin's work. He looked down at his shoes again and in doing so noticed that he was more or less standing just where Ginny had lain during his encounter with Tom Riddle. He moved forward a couple of paces.

When he raised his head again he could see that the huge door had opened fully and that there was a figure silhouetted in the lamplight, with an undulating gleam which seemed to writhe at its feet. For long moments nothing happened and Harry steeled himself for what was to come. So much was riding on this one encounter; so many lives were at stake and after what he had seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve…

The figure was now walking towards Harry. Its pace was not hurried, yet it seemed to eat up the distance between the two of them very quickly indeed. As Nagini slithered into the wide pool of light which surrounded the veil, she reared up and tested the air with her forked tongue before turning to regard Harry, who envied her the emotionless face she presented the world. She then gathered her body behind her in preparation to approaching him.

"_Sssuashiss-thá!"_

Both Harry and Nagini flinched at the insult barked in Parseltongue and it was hard to say which looked the most put out; Harry who had uttered the curse on impulse, or the snake which seemed angered by the word. She coiled her body upon herself time and time again until she resembled a tangle of rope and seemed to be on the point of attacking until her master stepped into the light.

"You might very well level that insult at yourself, Harry Potter. _'Puppet'_ you say? What then are you if not the ultimate puppet? Who are you to level such an insult at Nagini, guilty as you are of the same sin?"

His voice had not changed and was still that otherworldly mixture of high-pitched huskiness and mellower bass notes. It was capable of evincing a false bonhomie to rival Cornelius Fudge after he had enjoyed a stiff firewhisky, yet was still able to project a cold hatred to rival Severus Snape's best. It was a valuable tool for such a manipulator as he.

If his voice had not changed then his appearance certainly had. Whereas it was true that he was still cadaverously thin and his skin had not lost its unwholesome grey-white pallor, he too had chosen to dress for the occasion. After coming to a halt at Nagini's side, his beautifully tailored midnight-black robes continued to sway ever so slightly. Despite trying not to show even a hint of weakness Harry shivered as the undulating motion of the robes served to remind him of the tattered black curtain on the hated veil.

Once again he closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. If anyone had ever told him he would one day feel secure enough to close his eyes in the presence one of the most evil Dark wizards in history, he would have laughed in their face. Yet he felt safe enough doing just such a thing, secure in the knowledge that he would not be attacked quite yet. Then he opened his eyes again and resumed his scrutiny of Voldemort.

His feet, which had last time been filthy as they had pushed Cedric's dead face to and fro, were clad in glistening boots of the supplest leather. Had it not been the Dark Lord who was wearing them, Harry might well have laughed. They looked very much like a pair of boots Lavender and Parvati were always fighting over. Quite who owned them, however, he couldn't say.

Finally he raised his eyes to the most obvious addition to Voldemort's apparel – the plain silver circlet which adorned his bald head. Harry had spotted it the instant he had stepped into the pool of light and had deliberately looked away lest his mind betray him. It was vital that Voldemort not suspect anything and leave here prematurely for although Harry was doing his best to Occlude his mind, he could not guarantee anything against Voldemort's power. If it was indeed the missing Horcrux…

"Is it a Horcrux?" said Voldemort in a tremulous whisper as he raised his fingers to his lips. It was as if he were reading Harry's mind after all, but when he broke down into mocking laughter, Harry knew that his secrets were still safe.

"But I forget my manners, Harry, and that simply will not do!" Voldemort stated in a more serious manner. He brought his heels together with a sharp click and curtly bowed his head.

"I am Lord Voldemort, wizard plenipotent in the world today and I have come to bring the matters outstanding between the two of us to a close," he said in a formal tone. Then he looked up and his face was once again given over to its habitual sneer of condescension.

"I must admit that I am gratified that you are here and have not forced me to run you to ground, Harry, for that would not be a fitting end for the son of James Potter. I should not have scorned him the last time we met as he was, after all, a _man_. He did indeed meet me as a pureblood wizard should meet his enemy; face to face and with no underhand tricks! He knew he was doomed, of course, yet that did not stop him confronting me with his wand in his hand and a snarl on his face!

"You, on the other hand, have never sought to face me without underhand trickery and cowardly deceits. Each time you have eluded me, Harry, and here I am forced to concede that these occasions have both vexed and wearied me, each time you have eluded me you have only managed to do so due to the help of others. Your filthy Muggle mother, that senile old fool Dumbledore, the pathetic shades of my fallen victims and even by the incompetence of my own followers have you gone free!" he hissed.

Then he briefly turned to regard the distant door to the Chamber of Secrets before once again facing Harry. A distant rumble told him that the heavy portal was rumbling shut, sealing the two of them in here until the end…until the matter was decided.

"Now it is just you and me, Harry Potter, and there is no possibility of you indulging yourself in your cowardice again this time!" he crowed.

"_Huásss-ashíth,"_ hissed Harry by way of response.

Voldemort was momentarily taken aback and it showed in his face. Whether it was due to Harry's lack of response to the goads or by the fact that he had chosen so far to converse only in Parseltongue was not clear. A snarl clawed its way onto his face before he once again mastered his emotions and gave another of his courtly bows.

"Oh, you are quite welcome," was the reply sent forth by those thin, cold lips. "Now, if you don't mind I think we will begin. It would be rude of me to keep my Death Eaters waiting, after all."

In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

The two wizards raised their wands.

**08.25 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

Harry was panting.

He had already tried everything he knew and then some more besides. Once he had seen a Slytherin fire a stinging hex which bounced off any surface it came into contact with until it hit flesh. Only the fact that he had been caught red-handed by Professor Flitwick and punished severely had prevented the hex coming into widespread use in the halls and corridors of Hogwarts. When all else had failed, Harry had sent a series of these bolts bouncing off the floor at different angles in an attempt to just _touch_ Voldemort. It had failed.

He had been prepared for the fact that his enemy would be using a different wand and had not been disappointed. Although his original claw-footed wand was tucked into an elegant holster on the front of the sash which secured his robes, Voldemort was using an incredibly long and thin substitute. Every time Harry launched one of his not inconsiderably powerful attacks, he would be frustrated by the tiniest flick of that thin wand clutched in an equally emaciated hand.

He was being toyed with.

It was undoubtedly something to do with the silver circlet which adorned Voldemort's head, for as soon as they had begun duelling it had developed a faint blue light. Harry had not expected to land a blow on Voldemort this time. He was always trying to impress upon people that he had been carried through his previous confrontations mainly by luck. The Order's plan did not rely on Harry's magical powers or duelling prowess one whit, so in theory this was a wasted effort on his part. However, one very important factor was whether or not Voldemort carried on his person the unknown Horcrux and Harry had to find out.

"_Accio _circ…" he began.

He was slammed back onto the flagstones with such force that he had his answer. This was the first time which Voldemort had chosen to strike back at him rather than simply deflect or evade his spells. Looking up from the floor he met those narrowed and furious red slits a moment before they assumed a more composed expression. Harry smiled, letting Voldemort know that he had just slipped up and that he himself had been manipulated. It was a small victory admittedly, but a victory nonetheless.

"_Ruasss-há-shíass!"_ he hissed at his enemy.

Voldemort laughed coldly.

"Oh, did you? Well let me ask you this, Harry; who saw it? In all of world of wizards or Muggles, who witnessed the tiniest of flea bites which Harry Potter claims to have landed on Lord Voldemort? Who then shall bear witness to your great victory and travel the lands singing of your great deed? No one, as well you know! You will never leave this place, my young friend, or at least not by the door," he added, casting a darkly significant glance at the veil.

"Do you really think you possess any power, artefact or quality which will force me through there? I have spent my entire existence searching out possible threats to my immortality, and knowing them all I may confidently state the following: you are not one of them!

"Long have I searched for a method to make you suffer, Harry, and I don't mind admitting that the more I searched the greater my sense of frustration was, for something of sufficient horror was not to be found. Finally, however, I have found a way to hurt you in a manner befitting one who has defied Lord Voldemort!"

From his position on the floor Harry had a hard time seeing past the figure of Voldemort, but he thought he saw movement back along the promenade leading to the door. He dared not try to get a clearer view for fear of interrupting Voldemort's bilious monologue and drawing his attention.

"Can you see them yet, Harry? Have you discerned the way in which you shall meet your end? They are magnificent!" Voldemort screeched with his arms cast wide.

This was it, the moment which he had been dreading since he had discovered the truth in Scrimgeour's office. Nothing could ever compare to the trepidation he had felt knowing that this time would come, not even the waiting for the Tri-Wizard Tournament tasks in which he was afraid for his very life. He had long resigned himself to the fact that this would be has last day on earth, yet still he was terrified. He gulped some air down his constricted throat as the dimly lit figures approached them.

"This army will bolster the ranks of my Death Eaters, Harry! They will turn the tide of the war irrevocably in my favour regardless of what happens above our heads today. Few are the witches or wizards who are powerful enough to rend my new soldiers limb from limb which is, of course, the only way to stop them! And as they kill, so shall they add their fallen victims to their own ranks!"

His face grey and beaded with sweat, Harry regained his feet despite the best efforts of his own body. It was if it was resisting him with all of its might; his arms and legs felt like they were made of lead and his muscled wobbled like the jelly from Dudley's birthday party.

"Yes! Yes! Here they are at last, Harry! They are here for you!" cried Voldemort exultantly.

Harry looked up as the Inferi closest to them stepped into the pool of light. Some were naked and some were dressed in little more than rags. _They_, however, were easy to pick out as they were dressed as if they had just arrived home from a day at the office.

"Harry, it is my very great pleasure to reintroduce you to your parents!" cooed Voldemort with a wide smile.

The reanimated corpses of James and Lily Potter stood flanking their master.

**08.30 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

Harry vomited.

He bent over as his stomach expelled what little he had managed to eat for his last, lonely meal and splattered the floor in front of him. He felt hot and cold pinpricks all over his body at the same time and was aware of Voldemort's hysterical laughter. He vomited again.

"Harry! What sort of a welcome is that to extend to your beloved parents? Their journey to this place has been a long and torturous one, I assure you. Do stand up and try to look as if you are happy to see them!"

He made a short sweeping motion with his arms to which James and Lily responded by stepping clumsily forward. They were now fully in the light and Harry could not help but see them quite clearly. This time when he bent forward there was nothing left in his stomach and he gagged as the dry heaves racked his body.

Their dishevelled hair looked brittle, dry and dull as if they had just recovered from a long illness whilst their skin lacked the lustre of the living. Instead, it looked like the waxy parchment Professor Sprout used to wrap the dried plants she had regularly sent to Snape for his Potions classes. They stood as if they were dangling from a wire attached to the top of their heads and both of them were slightly lopsided. In a desperate attempt to avoid looking at their faces, he concentrated on their clothes which looked like they had been long abandoned on the floor of a dusty room before his parents had been hastily and sloppily dressed in them. Voldemort's defilement of them was complete.

He sighed and raised his eyes to meet theirs.

It was as if he were looking upon a grotesque puppet which had been constructed to parody a human. Lily's eyes were half-closed and seemed to be staring at the floor to his left. James's eyes, on the other hand, were far worse. One seemed to be looking directly at him whilst the other was directed away to the edge of the circle of light. They both stood stock still, without even the action of breathing or blinking to give them the appearance of life.

He moved his own bloodshot eyes to meet the narrowed red slits which had regarded him unblinkingly since the beginning of their confrontation and then screwed them shut in a vain attempt to dislodge the unshed tears. His lips were compressed into the tightest line he could manage in order not to lose control of them. He would not cry in front of Voldemort, he swore to himself.

Hearing a strange noise he glanced up to see the ring of Inferi shuffling forward very slowly behind their advancing master.

"Harry, I think it would be entirely fitting for the occasion if you were to embrace your parents, don't you? It is true that we are both English and are possessed of that famous emotional reserve but special occasions merit a public display of affection, wouldn't you say? Come now, Harry, embrace your dear Muggle mother!

"They will kill you ever so slowly, Harry!" he continued in a gentle tone of voice. "It shall neither be slow nor painless as they use their fingers to pick the bloody gobbets of flesh from your body. Before the end you will scream and you will beg for mercy, but…you…shall…not…have…it!"

As he stood almost toe to toe with Voldemort, he fancied he could feel the non-existent breath of the Inferi on the back of his neck. To steady his wavering resolve, he cast his mind back to the promise he had made himself after Hermione, Bob, Iain and Jerry had been injured whilst searching for Helga Hufflepuff's goblet.

_From here on in he would say anything, do anything and deal with anyone in order to end all of this. He would finish with the Horcrux, the Death Eaters, Voldemort and anyone else who threatened peace in the world. No innocent would suffer again on his behalf; not one._

He opened his eyes just as his parents' hands were reaching for his throat. At his muttered _"Protego Positus"_ a full body shield sprang into life. It was a faint blue nimbus of light which was renowned for being incredibly powerful and extraordinarily brief. As it flared brightly under the scrabbling fingers of the half dozen Inferi surrounding him, he looked directly into his mother's eyes.

The seconds stretched out into a full minute and still the Inferi could not touch him. Prowling the edge of the shield, Voldemort fought against a rising tide of vexation. He had won and yet he was still impatient for this to be over. He was anxious to join his Death Eaters above who had just joined battle with the Auror Phalanxes. He was already assured of victory but his colossal sense of vanity demanded that it be a flawless triumph, unblemished by the impure hands of those who opposed him.

"Your shield will soon collapse, Harry!" he called out eagerly.

He both pursed his lips and frowned slightly at the lack of response. Moving around the Inferi which encircled Harry, Voldemort scrutinised his enemy's face. Puzzled as he was by Harry's softening expression, he raised his wand.

"_Legilimens!"_

**08.40 – Tuesday 17th February 1998**

_Love._

_Harry was wandering the paths of his mind in search of love and despite the circumstances of his upbringing there was a surprising amount of it to be found._

_First and foremost there was the platonic love which filled him whenever he thought of Ron and Hermione. He could remember as if it were yesterday the first time he had met them both on the Hogwarts Express. Of course, he hadn't much cared for Hermione to begin with, but that had changed soon enough. Although he pretended to ignore her advice, it was telling that she was the only person to whom he had constantly turned to when in need of counsel. In fact, he ruefully acknowledged that his own reckless nature had often been tempered by her cool intellect without his realisation. Often days would pass before it dawned upon him exactly how he had been manipulated by her._

_Ron, on the other hand, was an entirely different kettle of fish. He was as fiercely loyal as Hermione it was true, but there the similarity ended. He was an uncomplicated presence in Harry's life and one which counterbalanced Hermione perfectly. Ron didn't confuse matters by constantly over-analysing them; instead he lived them. Much like a dog he displayed his emotions as and when he felt them and therein lay his charm – he was honest as he was open._

_In an ever changing world of intrigue and suspense they had both always been there for him. With a twinge of guilt he acknowledged that he had received far more from their friendship than he had ever given in return and if there were a better definition of friendship that that, he did not know it. In the silence of his mind his love for them swelled and he thanked them for their friendship with all of his heart._

_Next there was the sentimental love which he felt for the most precious things in his life. He still could not think of Hogwarts without a surge of emotion constricting his chest. He would not exchange the life which would end today for one with another fifty years if it meant that he had never come to this school. It was this place which had allowed him to experience freedom, friendship, Quidditch, wizard chess and pudding. If there was anyone who did not value such things, then Harry pitied them. That such things would cease to exist under Voldemort there was no doubt and it did not matter that he would no longer be here to enjoy them. Others would come after him to discover the simple pleasures in life and that should be enough for him._

He winced as a particularly strong jolt of the shield rocked him.

_Ginny - she was both the romantic and erotic love which he had no concept of whatsoever until it had finally dawned on him that he found her attractive. Indeed, such a word failed to encompass the range of his unrealised feelings towards her. She had been the hope of something normal and good in his life, even if he had not seen it until recently. As a teenager, he had never really entertained the concept of a family beyond a hazy perception of what might happen in the future. There was no doubt in his mind, however, that he would have chosen her without hesitation to be his partner on life's path._

_In the here and now, however, all he could think of was the softness of her lips as they kissed; the silky feel of her skin under the tips of his fingers as they traced the line of her jaw and neck; the fragranced darkness of her auburn hair as he buried his face in it in an attempt to nibble her ear. The pounding in his chest at such thoughts was of an entirely different quality to the dull thudding ache which he was experiencing now._

Another strong blow buffeted him and he felt his hold on the shield slipping. Like a rope sliding through his fingers, when his strength ran out he would fall to his death.

_In the very back of his mind he felt the briefest of flutters. It was if someone had gently blown on the back of his brain, so gentle was the sensation. He frowned as he screwed his eyes shut all the tighter as he concentrated on the faint tingle. He found something there and latched on to it for all he was worth. It was as fragile and ephemeral as a snowflake as he tried to comprehend what it was._

_Then it unexpectedly blossomed open under his gentle scrutiny and it proved to be little more than a memory of walking downhill. There was just the haziest impression of grass and trees around him, but the sensation was definitely more focussed on the agreeable jolting passage down the hill. It faded away._

_Another flutter and this time he seized upon it, recognising it for what it was. Again there was little in the way of visual memory which seemed to have taken a subordinate position to the memory of warmth. Harry was never one for joining Lavender in her afternoons spent in the summer sun in pursuit of a tan, but this memory was unmistakably of the sun on exposed skin. This sensation proved to as fleeting as the last and soon dwindled away._

_The next in what proved to be a rapid succession of images made him squirm as it felt very much like fingers tickling his ribs. This was followed by the gentle stroke of a hand on his hair, then the ache of burning lungs after a brisk run, a bitter taste in his mouth which he did not care for in the slightest, the icy needles of a cold shower. Like the flickering of the sunlight through the leafless branches of a winter tree, the images continued to flow thick and fast. They were exclusively of physical sensations with very little in the way of emotional content, but the sensations were all agreeable._

The truth stole slowly upon Harry. What he was experiencing were the memories of the Inferi surrounding him. They were the distant echoes of what the souls which had once occupied these poor bodies found to be…pleasant.

_Love – whatever form it came in, he felt it all the more intensely for having come to it late in life. He took a deep breath and concentrated as he tried to encapsulate all of the complicated feelings which he categorised as love into one package. Tears leaked from his eyes as sent this feeling back out towards those confused memories he was receiving._

"I'm sorry," he whispered as he looked directly at a stirring _something_ in the eyes of his parents.

It was the first time he had spoken in English since he had entered the Chamber of Secrets and his own voice seemed strange to his own ears.

He turned at a gagging sound to see Voldemort desperately trying to wriggle free of the dozens of hands which clasped his arms, legs and head. Harry was exercising no control over the Inferi whatsoever, but he knew what was happening. Voldemort was radiating hatred and bad memories whilst he himself was concentrating on love. The Inferi were little more than animals which were trying to attack something which hurt them.

Looking back up at the corpses of his parents, he reached out his hands and steeled himself to touch them. Taking a firm grip on each of them, he bent his head again and redoubled his efforts to concentrate on those feelings of love. As more and more Inferi pushed forward towards the source of such feelings, they were forcing Harry and Voldemort towards the veil. It was clear now that there were hundreds of Inferius in the shadows of the Chamber which were now crowding towards them as moths towards a candle.

He turned his head from side to side, desperately seeking some avenue of escape. But as soon as he allowed himself to become distracted, those Inferi which were holding Voldemort began to loosen their grip. Seeing the flare of triumph in those inhuman red slits, Harry made his choice.

"I know I will die," he said to no one in particular. "But I now know that death is not the end I used to think it was. I don't know if I'll ever again see anyone I know when I die, but at least there will be those I love to continue here."

These calmly spoken words seemed to send Voldemort into a frenzy. Harry maintained his grip on his parents as he shuffled backwards towards the veil under the weight of the advancing figures. He was dimly aware of the knot of Inferi restraining Slytherin's heir jostling him as they stumbled onto the dais just inches from the veil and its fluttering curtain and winced slightly as Voldemort's hand finally succeeded in escaping the iron grip of one of his own Inferius and latched onto his arm. Such was his concentration, however, that he failed to notice that his flesh had been pierced by Voldemort's filthy long nails and that he was being dragged even more rapidly towards his death.

As he held onto James's and Lily's arms, he concentrated on the love which filled him.

**03.20 – Wednesday 18th February 1998**

In the ensuing chaos of the pitched battle between the Death Eater Legions and the Auror Phalanxes it would be many hours before a new entrance would be blasted through to the Chamber of Secrets from the outside. When it was, however, the would-be rescuers would find absolutely nothing except for the unsettling veil and its ever-fluttering curtain.

And at its base was a pair of crushed glasses.

----------


	27. Regarding Severus

**Chapter 27 - Regarding Severus**

"_There is no revenge so complete as forgiveness.__"_

_  
__Josh Billings_

**06.40 – Wednesday 18th February 1998**

Hermione lay in the pitch dark of her bedchamber staring up at nothing. All night she had lain as still as one of the countless corpses lying not a mile from her bed which still awaited the attentions of the overwhelmed Ministry teams; one of the cold, stiff bodies which were dressed either in the black of the Death Eaters or the grey of the Aurors.

One of the bodies like Ron's.

He was still out there, she thought to herself. He was lying out there all alone on the scorched grass of the moor. She had spoken to Moody and Hieronymus Massingbird both, but they had been brutally honest and said that there was no way to locate his body and that she would just have to wait like everybody else. As soon as they found him they would let her know, they had promised. As the seemingly endless stream of corpses continued to come in to the Great Hall to be identified, she had not resisted as somebody had taken her arm and led her away. Sometime later she had found herself alone in her quarters on the floor below the Fifth Common Room.

The long hours of the night seemed to have passed in an instant and each passing minute took him farther away from her. Sleep would not come now so she slipped out silently from below the covers so as not to disturb the slumbering form in the bed next to her and crossed to the bathroom. The simple mechanics of life brought some measure of comfort to her as she brushed her teeth, showered and dressed in a mechanical way. By concentrating on the task at hand she was able to ignore the enormity of her loss. It was a tactic which would be employed by a great many people in the coming days to varying degrees of success. As she finished taming her hair, a task all the more difficult now that she had only the one arm with which to achieve it, she ran out of distractions and looked into the expressionless eyes of the blank face which hung in the mirror before her.

There was a gaping wound in her very soul which she knew would never heal, which she would not have heal as it would mean feeling the loss of Ron and Harry less than she did now; a betrayal of their memories she was sure she would never be able to commit. In a just world she would be in the cosy Gryffindor tower with Ron and Harry, scolding them for not revising for their N.E.W.T.s as they played a game of chess in front of the fireplace. They would be free to do as they pleased and to be what they had chosen to be, as would everybody surrounding them. However, she was not in a just world; she was in the real world.

She placed her hand over the face in the mirror and took a few deep breaths before opening the door and leaving. At first she did not notice the change as her eyes were unaccustomed to the darkness after the soft lamp light of the bathroom. After she had collected a shawl to guard against the slight morning chill which was usual in her quarters, however, she was startled to see a shimmering silver light coming from under the door leading to the living room-cum-study. It was a mark of just how out of sorts Hermione was that she stood there staring at the door rather than acting in a trice which she ordinarily would have done. It was a moment of hesitation for which she would later kick herself.

Crossing to the bed, she took her wand from the night table and leant across to place her hand on Ginny's hip to shake her from a fitful slumber. The younger girl seemed somewhat disoriented at first but at the sight of Hermione's raised wand and the strangely familiar light, she rolled from the bed with her own wand at the ready. Together they approached the door and listened intently for any hint of a sound from the other side. Hermione was about to whisper instructions when Ginny simply thrust the door open and entered the room. Like her friend, Ginny was also feeling a curious sense of detachment from the world. Without a word having yet been spoken, the two girls found themselves in Hermione's third and final chamber in her tiny suite of rooms.

Despite her relatively short time there, she had already stamped her identity on it. Every nook, cranny and surface was crammed full of books, quills and rolls of parchment. The somewhat austere image this produced was softened only by the ginger cat under the sofa with a snowy white owl on a perch and a walnut gramophone flanking the door which led to the main passage. The source of the mottled light was in plain sight: somebody had left Harry's Pensieve on the low table between the sofa and the fireplace.

"Who?" Hermione gasped.

A wan Ginny just shook her head by way of reply and then frowned as she held up the slip of parchment which had been left in front of the stone bowl. She squinted as she forced her tired eyes to focus and was about to hand it to her friend when something caught her eye. Frowning, she turned the note over and inhaled sharply at what was written on the other side.

"Shall we?" she asked suddenly, moving up to the Pensieve.

"Wait!" cautioned Hermione in a hoarse whisper. "What do you think you're doing? We can't go in there! I'll ask someone to…"

She trailed off as Ginny held the scrap of parchment up for her to see. She took it and as her friend quickly tied her hair back in a pony tail in preparation for entering the Pensieve, Hermione's eyes widened as she recognised the hand which had written the two words; she never forgot a style of handwriting.

"_Regarding Severus,"_ she read aloud in a disbelieving tone of voice.

"This is the memory which Harry saw and which he later showed me," said Ginny grimly. "Those two words were scribbled on a note tied to the base of the Pensieve, but they were all there was the last time I saw it," she went on.

"It's Dumbledore's handwriting," observed Hermione.

"And whose is the handwriting on the other side?"

"I don't know," admitted a wide-eyed Hermione. "But, it says…that would mean…"

She looked up to meet her friends gaze. Each of them seemed older in the eerie light cast from the stone basin.

"Alright," relented Hermione, "but we must be careful!"

"Why?" asked Ginny with a shrug.

----------

The two girls landed gently in the memory and although Ginny had seen it before, they were not so trusting as to let their guard down. Each of them maintained a firm grip on their wands.

They were in the Headmaster's office and Albus Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk. Rays of light from the setting sun bathed the study in a warm, golden light and despite thinking hard, Hermione wasn't able to remember ever having seen the Headmaster's office looking so inviting. When she did think about it at all she tended to associate it with emergencies and tense situations. But here was a more homely scene with the old man humming quite melodiously to himself as he finished signing a lengthy parchment with a flourish of his Phoenix feather quill. Her heart caught in her mouth as this alien memory worked to bring to mind her own treasured recollections of a bygone era at Hogwarts.

Placing the precious quill carefully on an antique wooden stand, Dumbledore flicked his wand and the now familiar bowl of the Pensieve emerged from an ornate cabinet against the wall to float over to a gentle landing on the desk. He reached out with his bejewelled hands to lovingly caress the large stone basin and bowed his head, as if to organise his thoughts all the better before beginning. He then looked up to let his eyes wonder over his office and his eyes were twinkling with suppressed mirth. Here was the Dumbledore of old, thought Hermione in the silence of her own head.

"_Good evening, Harry. My name is Albus Dumbledore and I am currently Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. At the time I am speaking, you are sitting aboard the Hogwarts Express, speeding towards your first year at this very school and undoubtedly enjoying a selection of wizardkind's many wonderful confections. I wish you have better luck with Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans than I ever had._

"_It is my intention to record a form of occasional journal for you, my boy. I would not presume to seek to influence your mind or sway your opinions, though. No, these memories will rather attempt to explain matters to you which may or may not arise in the fullness of time. It will come to you later in life and I hope it will serve to clarify any doubts you might have._

"_Harry, you will soon come to understand that the wizarding world is in equal parts both wondrous and terrible. As a people we are capable of the greatest of feats and the most heinous of deeds and it is you, the boy who has one foot in each side of our collective psyche, who perhaps understands it the least._

"_Let a rambling old man explain himself. You and your family were attacked by a thoroughly malignant example of our world, a wizard who has plumbed the depths of evil as have so few others in the history of our kind. He sought power and immortality above all other things and was prepared to sacrifice absolutely anything to obtain that which he most desired. It was this man who attacked and killed your parents and who tried his utmost to have you meet the same grisly end. By the time you actually see this memory, you should be cognizant of the fact that it was your mother's love and her sacrifice which saved you, Harry, and doomed Lord Voldemort._

"_It is love which sealed your fate to the extent that it consigned you to live with your mother's sister and her family. For they are your only remaining blood relatives and it is blood magic which I have chosen to evoke to protect you from any who might seek to avenge their lord and master, my boy. I know you might well harbour ill will towards me in the future for placing you with such narrow minded people, but I hope you will believe me when I say that I had no choice; it was the only way to protect you._

Dumbledore suddenly snatched a deep breath and shook his head. He reached out to take the Phoenix feather quill again and twirled it around in his hands. As if this totem had the power to banish dark thoughts, a smile lifted his features and he continued speaking.

"_But listen to me! Instead of welcoming you to the exciting world in which you now find yourself, here I am auguring doom and gloom and that will never do. I do so look forward to renewing my acquaintance with you, Harry, and hope that we will come to know each other well."_

With this said, Dumbledore lifted his wand to his temple and the scene quickly faded into blackness.

"Wait," said Ginny in a flat tone of voice in anticipation of Hermione's question.

----------

"_Well, I must admit that after that business with the Philosopher's Stone I was hoping for a quieter time of it this year."_

The old wizard smiled with rueful acceptance of the events he alluded to. He was again seated at his desk and nothing had obviously changed yet he himself seemed to be preoccupied, thought Hermione to herself. As he regarded the bloody sword of Godric Gryffindor on the desk before him, the way the fingers of his left hand toyed with the end of his beard betrayed the disquiet within.

"_You'll forgive me I hope, Harry, but I must confess that I have been spying upon you. When you took off after Lucius Malfoy and his house elf just moments ago I thought it prudent to keep an eye on both you and them. I was touched by the concern you showed to Dobby as it was without a doubt one of the most selfless acts I have seen and all the more so for having come from a wizard of your age._

"_As old as I am, I never fail to be surprised by the capacity of the young to see the truth behind a complicated issue and to act to remedy the problem. In that way you are very similar to your mother. She was able to gauge a situation rapidly and formulate a plan of action to fit the events. However, I must urge you to choose your battles carefully, Harry! You must husband your strength carefully against the day when you might face an altogether deadlier class of enemy. It is good and right that you stand by your friends, but always bear in mind that sometimes we must sacrifice all that we hold dear to us in order to be servants of the light!_

"_But again I forget myself. I am undoubtedly lecturing an older and wiser version of Harry Potter, one who quite possibly could teach me a thing or two. I am so proud of you and I daresay that your parents would be even more so. Now, if you'll excuse such a dreadfully short entry, I have to arrange a special feast and check on the house point totals. I suspect Severus will be displeased again this year!"_

With ill-suppressed mirth in his eyes, Albus Dumbledore stood up and the memory faded.

----------

As the memory blossomed into view this time, Hermione could sense a change in the emotional timbre of the memory. The Headmaster was once again in his office and nothing had changed. The furnishings, decorations and lighting were all identical yet it seemed to Hermione as if the whole scene were _darker_. She felt a chill and a sense of unease in the pit of her stomach as moved around to sit down heavily in the chair behind his desk.

"_Something smells rotten in the Ministry of Magic, Harry. Oh, I've always known of the petty jobbery, nepotism and inefficiency which exist there. Anybody who chooses to acknowledge what is in plain view in front of their eyes may see it too. Bureaucracy is a necessity for any civilisation, but it is also the handmaiden of corruption and we must constantly guard against it._

"_Unfortunately, it seems as if there may be something more ominous behind the whiff of iniquity coming from the Ministry than the run-of-the-mill graft which is to be expected from any such institution. The unfettered access which Lucius Malfoy and other less than savoury individuals have recently enjoyed there brings more than a shadow of a doubt to my mind as to its proper functioning. I do try so very hard to affect an unconcerned air in public as it unnerves those whose arrogance is their greatest weakness. They fear that I may be privy to a certain 'something' and that fear serves as a greater restraint on any excessive acts which they might be planning than any explicit threat of mine._

"_The ease and confidence with which they now draw attention to themselves with their quite blatant manipulations of the Ministry and the majority of its personnel augurs badly for the future. I sense Voldemort's hand in this, but the fact that I cannot detect his presence disturbs me. I have no doubt all will become clear in the future yet it is the present in which he is working unopposed and unrestricted. I…"_

He stopped talking quite abruptly and looked upwards towards the ceiling as if sniffing at the air. His face relaxed as a quiet smile creased its features and it struck Hermione just how much the old man's face could change. From serenity to the coolness with which he seemed to cow people much more efficiently than the angry expressions other people used; from worry to the amused look now lifting his whole face to another plane, Albus Dumbledore's face truly reflected the emotion within.

"_Ah, I see that unknown agents have just this moment helped that scurrilous rogue Sirius Black escape. I must go post haste to alert Cornelius Fudge and his officials lest they fail to apprehend the criminal."_

With this, Dumbledore settled back into his chair and summoned a Muggle newspaper with a flick of his wand. He began to read with every sign of satisfaction, but even as the memory began to fade, some measure of the preoccupation came back to settle on his heavily-lined face.

----------

This time the room was plunged into deep shadow and the tired, faint light of a waxing moon. It seemed to match the mood of the sole occupant rather well as he sat slumped in his high-backed chair. He began to speak in a husky tone of voice.

"_He is dead. He is dead because I failed in my duty to protect him._

"_It is easy for me to be sanguine about my own end, Harry, for I have lived a long and rewarding life. That will be of little consolation to the family and friends of Cedric Diggory, however. That young man was one of the rare ones who pass through these halls. Oh, each child is precious without doubt, but every now and then a true gem sees the light of day. He had that uncommon mix of intelligence, friendliness, honour and intellectual curiosity that one so rarely sees. I have no doubt that he would have been a rising star in our world, Harry, and would have done much in the course of his life to benefit wizardkind. Now he will do naught but give himself back to the earth and rejoin the world which brought him forth. So great a loss of so much potential!"_

Tears welled up in Hermione's eyes as she for the full force of the old man's anguish for the first time. His address to the full school of Hogwarts in the Great Hall had been both passionate and sad, but had not contained the raw, hopeless grief which gripped Dumbledore now. How often had he kept his darkest moments to himself behind the door of his office? Long had he been criticised for keeping his own counsel to the point of paranoid secrecy. Indeed, Harry had been one of those who had been most vocal in his criticism of Dumbledore's refusal to share information. Had he found it in his heart to forgive the old man before the end?

"_And that does not end the balance sheet for this whole sorry affair. Lord Voldemort is once again garbed in flesh and blood and free to work his mischief in a more personal and active form than he was previously able to do. Like the fires of this school which are banked for the night and lie ready to burst to life come morning, Voldemort will now put into action many a malignant plan which had previously only existed as dark fancies in his malignant mind. If things had been worsening up until this point, they had been just a taste of the things to come._

"_How could I have failed to see that Alastor Moody had been replaced by an impostor? I brought him to the school so that I could concentrate on other matters - on Voldemort. Had I but paid more attention on what was going on under my nose this tragic death may well have been avoided! Surely this is my darkest hour, Harry. Not only is my life winding down, but also my mind is losing its edge. If I stumble now all Voldemort need do is to reach out his scabrous hand to pluck that which he most desires._

"_I must survive until the end of this battle! I must!"_

----------

The next memory found Dumbledore in front of his desk with his feet planted wide and his hands clasped behind his back. The lack of preparation and the raw emotional honesty of the previous memories clashed with the arranged air of this latest one. Hermione found herself leaning forward in anticipation of the words to come. Ginny remained silent and withdrawn at her side.

"_We have passed the crest of the hill and are now coasting down towards the final confrontation, Harry. Quite how long we have to wait until that dark day I cannot say, yet it will not be long now._

"_I have just been forced to accept an individual whom even I find distasteful to the point of nausea. Dolores Jane Umbridge is a uniquely dangerous person in that she is quite, quite insane. Unfortunately for the world at large, both ours and that of the Muggles, she has yet to manifest this madness in a form which would see her safely limited in her activities. Like the strongest and deadliest of storms, she gathers her energy until it erupts beyond anyone's control._

"_I am sure that even Cornelius would shy away from associating with such individuals in his never ending quest for influence. It is regrettable that he is as short-sighted as ever in his infantile groping for 'power'. When this is all over, Harry, you must remember that the vast majority of the world is self-serving and amoral. It serves no purpose, however, to rail against the facts of life. Instead, we must seek to maximise the assets which we find ourselves in possession of and to do this we must avoid unnecessary confrontations._

"_I admit my patience has been sorely tested in the past by the sundry idiocies of Cornelius Fudge and his ilk. However, as the maxim of Lord Voldemort is 'Divide and Conquer' it behoves those of us possessed of a more mature bent to go the extra mile, as it were, to avoid conflict in our own ranks. I would be forced to describe this attitude as taxing rather than anything else and there have been times when I have almost reached for my wand to sweep the self-serving fools out of my office. Although the threat to me, you and wizardkind comes from such individuals I do not discount it. This year will be a sore test for us all but it is absolutely essential that we pass it for if we fail, well...I shudder to contemplate the consequences for us all._

"_And is if my plate were not full enough already, there is also another matter with which I must wrestle…that of…._

"_It never rains but it pours, Harry."_

----------

The following memory found the old man looking haggard and drawn.

He was pacing the floor in front of his desk with nervous energy and seemed to be muttering to himself under his breath. His hands fluttered at his sides as if he sought to emphasise points he was making in the silence of his own head. The way in which he seemed to recoil from the walls as if he had not seen their approach put Hermione in mind of a the crime of a caged lynx she had once witnessed at the zoo and seeing the powerful wizard in such a state was dismaying. Apparently Ginny seemed to think so too as she was looking down at her feet and clenching her fists.

"_Over the years I have taken great pleasure in observing your trials and tribulations, Harry. I never had children of my own and although it was a decision I never came to regret, the absence of a family has become more noticeable as the years have passed. It was a choice I made relatively early in life and I was correct to do so for had I allowed myself such a pleasant distraction, I would never have achieved half the things I have done. Unfortunately, the same may be said of Lord Voldemort._

"_I always felt a trifle guilty for feeling a thrill each time you caught the Snitch. I was Headmaster, after all, and could ill afford to show open favouritism in such a divided school. The same is true for all of your many victories, Harry. Protecting the Philosopher's Stone, confronting Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, placing your faith in Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, winning the Tri-Wizard Tournament, duelling with Lord Voldemort and standing up to the Ministry of Magic; just one of these achievements would place you head and shoulders above the vast majority of adults in our world._

"_Each and every time you accomplished one of these amazing feats I felt torn between the pride and worry which fought for dominance in my heart. I was proud of your selflessness, that much is understandable, but why worry? Well, my boy, I was worried that you would be changed by all of the attention and praise which were deservedly heaped upon you. Few adolescents are capable of maintaining a level head and sense of perspective under such circumstances, but you have time and again shrugged off such nonsense and remained just who you are. That is one of the most important factors in this whole mess, Harry; that you not be blemished by these events._

"_Many have questioned the decisions I took upon myself to make about your life. Interestingly enough, I have always felt the guiltiest about the one that was the best for you; that of placing you with the Dursleys. You must understand that it was the only way I could absolutely guarantee your safety. Protected as you were by the very oldest of magic I could rest assured that at the very least you would grow up. We have seen that even the impressive security here at Hogwarts has been repeatedly breached in the past, even when I was not absent! I could therefore not risk any harm coming to you whatsoever and had to place you with your uncle and aunt!_

Here the old man stopped his pacing to slam his fists down on his desk. Hermione found herself repelled by the sight of the great Albus Dumbledore reduced to such a state of impotent frustration. She now knew the full story of how he had died and his death had not been a dignified one at all. First poisoned by some unknown potion of Tom Riddle's design and then reduced to the state of helplessness before a wizard of such questionable power as Draco Malfoy, surely it was a death he would not have chosen for himself.

"_But it is safe to admit at this point in time that I failed in my duty of care to you and to others under my protection. My manipulation of those around me runs deeper than you could possibly imagine, my boy._

"_Harry, I would have your attention whilst I…_

"_There is something you ought to…_

Dumbledore ground to a halt and drew a shuddering breath. He made a visible effort to pull himself together before going on.

"_Regarding Severus, Harry, there is much which you do not yet comprehend._

"_I believe I mentioned my pride in your achievements earlier. Well, it goes without saying that this pride extended to your activities on the Quidditch pitch. Along with your victories, you have taken more than your fair share of falls. I was at first concerned by the stoicism which you bore these injuries, imagining it to stem from the less-than-tender ministrations of your uncle and aunt during the course of your childhood. You had access to the excellent medical care of Madam Pomfrey, of course, but until she relieved the pain you were in no better position than any Muggle with such an injury. Later on, however, I came to realise that you were simply strong in both mind and body._

"_A broken arm might occasionally heal even stronger than the original bone, Harry, with the two ends coming together and form a bond of uncommon strength and rigidity. But imagine, if you will, a bone broken day in and day out over the course of two decades. Regardless of whether that bone was left to heal naturally or cured by magical means, both it and its owner would still suffer the consequences of repeated pain and suffering. That, Harry, is the poor creature named Severus Snape._

"_I know you will find this difficult to hear as in all probability he will have killed me before I have the chance to place another of my memories in this Pensieve, but hear me you must. And yes, you did hear me correctly, Harry; I said 'killed'._

"_Ever since that poor, tortured soul made the highly dangerous decision to betray Lord Voldemort and voluntarily work as a double agent against him, he has suffered daily. He has suffered from the sense of guilt for his actions as a Death Eater; a sense of guilt with which he whips himself from his bed every morning without fail! He suffers from the muttered slights and low opinion of the population at large; people whom may well owe their very lives to the actions of this man! He suffers each and every time he answers the call of his 'Dark Lord', both physically under the Cruciatus curse and in the silence of his own mind when he is humiliated by Voldemort as he was under his abusive father at home and by his fellow students here at Hogwarts._

"_I am forced to recognise the sense of glee with which I received Severus when he first came to me whilst he was still among the ranks of the Death Eaters. He made his approach just at the time when I desperately needed such an asset in the battle against Voldemort and his minions. I told myself that both of our purposes would be served by my using Severus in such a manner. He would be able to atone, in part at least, for the sins he had committed. Such a service would very probably help him come to terms with his actions, I reasoned. I, meanwhile, would receive a steady trickle of information which I would be able to thwart the plans of the enemy._

"_I know this may difficult for you to accept but you must try! There is no individual living today who has sacrificed more to the fight against Voldemort than Severus Snape. The man is not a 'hero' in the widely understood sense of the word, I admit. However, that is exactly what he is! When I was cursed by ring of Salazar Slytherin I was cursed unto death. I am perhaps unrivalled in my knowledge of all magical arts with the exception of the Dark Arts and I simply made a mistake. I have no cause to reproach myself as I could have delegated the task to no other. Nor could I have acted in any different way as the destruction of the Horcrux was of the utmost importance."_

Hermione watched with wide eyes as Dumbledore ceased his pacing in front of his Pensieve. It was now located in a cabinet at the side of his office and the dappled patches of light and shadow it cast across the whole room now served to draw the Headmaster's attention. Cautiously he approached the stone basin and reluctantly, it seemed, he gazed into its depths. For long moments he said nothing as his eyes followed the fleeting images of memories, both recent and old.

Oblivious to Ginny at her side and the office surrounding her, Hermione took her first tentative steps since she had entered this memory. She moved forward as silently as she was able, regardless of the fact that this was nothing more than a memory and its occupant was oblivious to her presence. She felt as if she were intruding, spying even, on a confession which had never been meant for her. As she drew yet closer to Dumbledore she was able to see his face and its brief reactions to the memories before him. His eyes were bright with moisture as he frowned, smiled and winced to the endless parade of his life's events. Without lifting his eyes from the basin, he began to talk again.

"_Severus never has been, is not now, and shall never be a 'nice man', Harry. He is by turns brilliant, driven, insightful, cruel, vengeful and proud and has been one of the most demanding presences in my life. Had it not been for his appalling childhood, I consider it well within the realms of possibility that he would have surpassed me in terms of power and knowledge._

"_I hesitate to claim that I took him under my wing as that sounds arrogant in the extreme. However, I did provide for him a place of safety and have tried down through the years to ease the burden on his mind. During the course of my efforts a great deal of respect and a small amount of genuine affection blossomed between us. It was therefore with a heavy heart that I informed him of my imminent demise. You see, Harry, I feared how he would react, not due to the impact on him of my death, but rather for the absence of my guiding hand. Without my presence to restrain him in his excesses and to bolster him in his weaker moments, what would he do?_

"_Of course, he would not accept my assertions that I was already beyond help and flung himself into a search for a counter curse. When he finally realised that there was no such thing, he had worked himself into a hospital bed through lack of sleep and stress. When he managed to muster enough energy to drag himself out of there, he was in a state of cold fury. He tore into me for letting my guard down. He railed against me for being so irresponsible as to try to tackle the Horcrux alone. He blamed me for handing Voldemort victory on a plate._

"_I presented my plan to him when he was in that state, knowing full well that it might well have pushed him over the edge of insanity. Instead of the explosion I was expecting, however, he simply discussed some minor details and then left. After that briefest of meetings, in which he agreed to kill me in order to cement his position at the right hand of Lord Voldemort, we never spoke again except on a professional basis. I fear that I have destroyed that poor man, Harry._

"_Just quite how long I have left before Severus chooses to enact his plan is not known to me. However, I did seek to impress upon him that it must take place before the curse which is travelling up my arm reaches my heart and he would seem to be rather better informed regarding that matter than am I._

"_There is little time remaining to me as you and I shall soon be leaving Hogwarts together in order to hunt for one of the Horcruxes, Harry. I feel I must, therefore, say this; my manipulation of you and of all the other people involved in this struggle was absolutely vital lest we merely supplant Voldemort as opposed to defeating him. I simply don't have the time to explain now, but I have endeavoured to ensure that there will be no more Dark Lords or inept, power hungry bureaucrats to threaten our own marvellous world or that of the Muggles in the future._

Albus Dumbledore swallowed hard and stood up straight. He smoothed his robes, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.

"_We can never be reconciled, Harry, for regardless of the manner of my demise I am now surely dead. However, know that I went to my grave bitterly regretting all of the hurts which I have unwittingly caused you. I wish with every fibre of my being that one day you will be able to forgive me and if you do indeed choose to bestow that greatest of gifts upon me, consider this; I am in equal parts unworthy of and grateful for your forgiveness._

"_My love to you, Harry Potter and my very deepest respect."_

With this, the careworn old man bowed deeply and raised his wand to his temple. As he extracted the memory from his mind, the scene faded into blackness.

"My god!" exclaimed Hermione disbelievingly, her eyes brimming with tears. "I wonder how Harry reacted to that."

"Badly," was the only reply that Ginny was willing to give. "But there was much, much worse to come," she added in a frightened whisper.

----------

The texture of the next memory was very different indeed, Hermione realised instantly. Instead of the homely environment of Albus Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts, they were now in the middle of a patch of scrubby grass. It was night time and in the distance there was some sort of Muggle housing estate which looked a little run down to say the least. The lines of unhealthy looking orange streetlights in the distance served to remind Hermione just how much she was now removed from the world of her parents. It all seemed so ugly and tawdry.

"Look," was the single word of warning from Ginny.

Slightly to her left a tall figure was making its way towards them through the gloom. It seemed in no particular hurry to arrive and even paused on various occasions to kick various pieces of rubbish out of its path. When they were within hailing distance it became clear that the figure was dressed in robes and did not belong to this world any more than they did. It halted almost directly in front of them and reached up to lower its hood.

Snape.

It was unnatural how the man had seemed not to have aged a single day in the six years he had been their Professor of Potions. Day in, day out he had maintained exactly the same look and clothes, never altering a stitch of his appearance. He stood there, the faint orange light from the streetlights casting an unwholesome tone on his sallow complexion. Then he sneered. It wasn't the ordinary sneer which he reserved for his pupils and their imperfect potions and nor was it the more disgusted curl of his lip which he reserved for the likes of the Remus Lupins or Dolores Umbridges of the world. No, this expression encapsulated the sum total of the hatred in his narrow chest and poured it upon the recipient.

The thin lips were drawn far back over the yellow, horselike teeth and his black eyes bored into the air above Hermione's head, just where Harry's eyes would have been. Such repugnance was placed into the glare that she took a half step backwards from him before remembering that this was just a memory.

A shiver ran the whole length of Hermione's spine to look upon such hatred.

"_Potter, how very nice it is to see you again," _he murmured with a mocking bow.

"_That doddering old fool left his message to you in my care if you can imagine! He was intelligent in a way that you could not possibly comprehend, so perhaps it was his intention that I add a little something of my own to his maudlin expression of regret. At the very least he could not have imagined that I would let it pass through my hands without entering it – he was incapable of such stupidity!"_

Here he narrowed his eyes yet further and leaned slightly forward. Dropping his silky voice to little more than a whisper, he continued,

"_He left a number of such missives with me, in fact. Perhaps it was intended as a sop to my feelings after all the years he manipulated me. If it was, then it is yet another failure to add to the long list of his life! I entered all of his melodramatic memories and gleaned much information which will be of use to me after this battle."_

Standing up straighter and looking altogether pleased with himself, Snape continued.

"_If I know anything about you, Potter, it is that at this point you are asserting that I will not survive. Perhaps you are also clenching your little fists and stamping your foot in a display of childish pique as well? Well, listen to me you utterly disgusting guttersnipe; survive I will! Long have I planned for this day, planned in a way of such complexity and subtlety that your atrophied little Gryffindor brain is incapable of understanding. You will die and I shall not though I suppose I will have to spell it out for you as you are incapable of beating even Weasley in a simple game of wizard chess._

"_If the Order of the Phoenix carries the day, no matter how unlikely that may seem, I will be lauded as the brave, self-sacrificing wizard who worked at Dumbledore's right hand to bring about the downfall of He Who Must Not Be Named. If, on the other hand, it is the Death Eaters who hold sway then I will be the greatest of the Dark Lord's servants. I shall be honoured above all others and will hold dominion over that which I desire. And do you...?"_

The question remained unfinished as Snape tore his wand from his robe, turned on his heel and shot the Killing Curse to his left. Her heart hammering in her chest, Hermione let out a painful breath when she saw that the unfortunate victim of the curse had been nothing more than a cat. She watched Snape search the playing field around him with suspicious, beady eyes and it occurred to her that she had never in her life seen anyone move so fast.

"_I was about to ask you if you could use your puny intellect to imagine just why the Dark Lord would be so generous? What could it be that would engender in him such an uncharacteristic state of generosity? Well, Potter, it is my very great pleasure to reveal the answer to you._

"_Not so very long ago I happened across a piece of information. I was searching Ministry of Magic archives for traces of any tomes of Dark magic which had been lost in the pogroms after the Dark Lord fell to your mother's sacrifice. Dumbledore thought that if I could unearth some Dark matériel it would serve to cement my credibility in the ranks of the Death Eaters. It was in my search of the archives that I came across the report of a theft from a Muggle church. In and of itself this was nothing of interest, but cross-referenced as it was to the death of one Edmund Stephen Chapman it caught my attention. Chapman was a dyed-in-the-wool Death Eater who was run to ground just after your parents' deaths. Scribbled in the margin of the report of his death at the hands of Aurors was a query regarding the theft."_

Snape raised his eyebrows in an expression of mock outrage and continued in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

"_Apparently this paragon of pureblood virtue had risked all to steal this ledger in order to present it to Lucius Malfoy or another of the Dark Lord's surviving lieutenants. It was not followed up as the intellectually retarded occupants of the Ministry of Magic had no idea what such a record of the births and deaths in a Muggle parish entailed. The very fact that a Death Eater had exposed himself to obtain it should have alerted them to the fact that it was, as it is always, related to power._

"_It was the parish ledger of Godric's Hollow, Mr. Potter, and what better way to distract the Dark Lord than to present him with the precise locations of your parents' magically concealed graves? It gave the Order some much needed breathing space, but I would have done it without such lofty motives in any case! What better way to revenge myself on the living, breathing **stain** which was the name 'Potter'? They say that revenge is a dish best served cold? Well, my heart is hot with the hatred I feel for you and yours, you insufferable little brat! I once despaired that I would ever be able to rid myself of the damage you and your parents did unto me but now **I** have hurt **you** more than your pureblood father and his friends ever succeeded in hurting me!_

"_Do you realise the full import of this information, Potter?_

"_Your parents are now Inferi!"_

Snape delivered this line slowly, as if he were relishing each and every word of it.

Hermione actually dropped to her knees at this piece of news. She remembered being less than her enthusiastic self when she approached her extra-curriculum reading on the subject of Inferi. Indeed, as these revenants did not feature on the Defence Against the Dark Arts exam she had briefly considered forgoing her usual reading. However, she had finally sat down to read what little had existed on the subject and for the following few nights she had not slept well. Now she was on her hands and knees, staring down at the puddle of vomit below her. Ginny had placed a hand on her back but seemed capable of offering little more comfort herself.

"_Albus was always blathering on about the fact that it was impossible to recall the dead to life. In the strictest sense of the word 'life' he was actually correct. I invite you to check the veracity of my assertions, Potter, but I assure you that despite the fact that the Inferi are not alive, neither are they truly dead. What we choose to narrowly define as 'life' is nothing more or less than the impression of the soul on a biological entity. Should you kill the body the soul moves on whereas if you kill the soul then the body dies._

"_What happens then if an unscrupulous wizard were to dig up the corpses and re-instil them with the merest hint of life? Why, I'm afraid that might just result in the re-awakening of the smallest part of the soul; not much, I admit, but just enough to suffer. It is the imprint which the soul left behind on the body; the memory of feelings and emotions, if you will. Still, no matter how small that spark of consciousness is, it is still capable of feeling anguish, loss and horror._

He continued even more slowly in a mocking tone which served to further darken his already velvety voice.

"_Oh, but it truly is a horrid crime to call the dead back to the half-life which is the fate of an Inferius, Potter. We should not grieve for James and Lily, though, as it is their noble sacrifice which has allowed us to draw out the Dark Lord. When he appears to confront you, your only hope is to wrest control of the Inferi away from him by any means you can and to use them against him._

"_A lot of thought and sacrifice has gone into choosing this confrontation, Potter. Many people have participated in this scheme, but including you there are only four alive who know it in its entirety. This is our only chance to kill the Dark Lord once and for all. Such is his anger that he will seek to toy with you before the end which means, Potter, you will have but a short time to act."_

There was a single instant of dizzying dislocation and then they were in the centre of the Death Chamber. Directly in front of them was the hypnotic presence of the veil whilst behind them they could hear the faint though persistent footfall of Harry's nemesis.

"_You do remember the veil, don't you? I must admit that I now have rather a soft spot for it, knowing that it did the world a favour in removing the mutt from it. Well, it will be placed in the Chamber of Secrets, a place to which only two wizards in the world may gain access. I don't imagine you will succeed, Potter, but do at least try to die like the man you mistakenly imagine yourself to be."_

Snape made a show of turning on his heel to leave before turning back to face where Harry would have been standing.

"_You've been where nobody else in the world has been, Potter, not even the Dark Lord: my memories! You've seen how my father treated my mother and me, how he controlled us both. Well, I'll tell you something you couldn't possibly imagine you intolerably righteous little brat; Albus Dumbledore wielded a far more powerful control over me than Tobias ever did. Do you know what it was, you loathsome whelp?_

"_It was love!"_

He drew himself up to his full height, his black eyes glittering and his face was a picture of revulsion and disgust. Taking a deep breath and bending his body slightly backwards, he spat a gob of phlegm onto the floor in front of him.

"_I hate you!"_

With his black robes clutched tightly around him, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

----------

Hermione felt slender arms wrap around her from behind. The tears spilled in quick succession down her face as she stood there, frozen to the spot. Her muted surprise and inert stance was in counterpoint to the wails of grief and trembling sobs from Ginny.

She was unable to move, stunned as she was by Snape's revelations. Harry had known this and not broken down? He had been burdened with the knowledge that he would be confronted with the reanimated corpses of his parents, yet had managed to go on? How had he found the strength to go on?

Ginny too, for that matter had concealed the awful nature of what she had seen. How had she felt, knowing the trap which had been set for Tom Riddle not only had but a small chance of success, but would also end in the death of Harry no matter what happened? The boy she loved had been served up on a platter like a well done steak. With Dumbledore pushing him towards such a confrontation and Voldemort trying to engineer a confrontation for all he was worth, Harry had never stood a chance.

As she too began to sob for loss of her friend and the death of her own love, she raised her hand to clasp Ginny's which were still wrapped around her chest. They held each other up when all they wanted to do was to fall to the floor and give themselves over to the black waves of despair rolling over them. In such a state as they were, it never occurred to them that with the end of Snape's memory they should have been expulsed from the Pensieve and found themselves back in Hermione's quarters.

It was the sound of footsteps on gravel which alerted them to the presence of the cloaked figures approaching them.

"Hermione!" shouted Ginny as she whipped up her wand. "This wasn't here last time!"

----------


	28. Au revoir and Adieu

**Chapter 28 – Au revoir and Adieu**

"_The graveyards are full of indispensable men.__"_

_  
General Charles de Gaulle _

**Tuesday 24th February 1998**

The Brae was a low hillock at the very bottom of the Hogwarts grounds, nestled in between the south western shore of the lake and the eastern eaves of the Forbidden Forest. Its name simply meant _slope_ or _hill_ in the variety of Gaelic spoken in these parts Scotland in the 14th Century and it had been the traditional site for a gathering of the local clansmen on the first sunset after battle. It was there that they would mourn their dead by keening for their departing souls as the sun was westering.

It hardly merited such a grand title, in Hermione's opinion, as it was such an unassuming little mound. She had looked up the etymology of the name in the surprisingly large Muggle section of the library and had been surprised to learn that its origins lay not in Gaelic group of languages as she had surmised, but in fact traced its roots to the Old Norse _brà_ which meant eyelash and the Old High German _bràwa_ which meant eyelid or eyebrow. Apt names for such a small hill, she thought to herself.

In her additional reading she had also discovered that six centuries ago the grounds of the school had not been as extensive as they were today and that the witches and wizards of the time would tolerate the presence of the clansmen so close to the castle. Indeed, they would look pityingly upon the dirty and bloodied Muggles in the throes of their grief and use them as an example to the pupils of just what their school was attempting to avoid through educating them to cooperate with one another. _'United we stand, divided we fall' _as a maxim was an admirable sentiment, but one which seemed rarely to apply to wizardkind, she thought glumly to herself.

The reason why Hermione had spent a morning researching this admittedly obscure matter was due to the fact that the Ministry of Magic had decided to hold a memorial service for the fallen on that very hill. Quite whether they had known of its import she did not know, but she felt that it was fitting that the fallen should be remembered there. She felt wizardkind often had an overly high opinion of itself and the fact that they were now reduced to the same sorry state of grief as Muggles from a bygone age seemed like a salutary lesson.

Exactly a week had gone by since the terrible events of that fateful day and as she sat at her ease in her beloved Hogwarts it all seemed so distant and unreal. Had she really marched out with the 6th Phalanx to face the remaining Death Eater Legions? If her life had depended on it, she doubted she would have been able to provide a coherent account of the ensuing chaos. For two hours the outcome of the battle had hung in the balance, but ultimately the will to fight seemed to have gone out of the Death Eaters who had ultimately broken their lines and fled. After Ron had quite literally gutted their forces the remaining Legions had played for time, obviously awaiting the arrival of Voldemort.

He had never come.

The second magical shockwave which had come seconds after Ron's death seemed to have marked the downfall of their Dark Lord. Unfortunately for a good many witches and wizards, the unwillingness on the part of the Death Eaters to accept their master's fall had cost many lives which might otherwise not have ended that day and it was these seemingly random deaths which Hermione found the hardest to come to terms with. Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley may have departed, but at least they had achieved something with their deaths. The families and friends of those witches and wizards who had died needlessly after Voldemort's downfall did not even have that cold comfort.

Hermione blinked her eyes. She looked around her at the antique sconces on the walls and although they held their customary candles, the light in the library seemed to be fading. As the world closed in around her and her head grew too heavy to hold up, she laid her cheek on the cool grain of the wooden table and screwed her eyes tight shut. She put her right arm over her head and thinking of Ron, sang softly,

"_You change all the lead, sleeping in my head to gold,_

_As the day grows dim, I hear you sing a golden hymn..." _

It was one of those Muggle songs which Dean was often heard to be singing in the Gryffindor common room. He would sit there with the pencil which was so out of place amongst the sea of quills and tap away merrily as he sang, blissfully unaware of the fact that he was distracting those around him who were trying to study. She didn't much care for the song but it seemed quite fitting for some reason and she continued humming the melody softly to herself until sleep took her.

----------

**Wednesday 25th February 1998**

"Miss Granger! Hermione, wake up! Oh, for Merlin's sake, girl; you've been here all night!"

The gentle hands which carefully pulled her upright gave the lie to the stern voice which accompanied them. As she managed to bring her strangely uncooperative eyes into focus, Hermione was surprised to find herself faced with both Madam Pince and Professor McGonagall. The already strange situation was further compounded by the fact that they were both clad in their nightclothes.

The formidable Madam Pince was sporting a cerise dressing gown and a black leather eye patch – a legacy of her part in the recent battle. She was hardly the largest woman in the world, resembling a hungry vulture as she did, yet she seemed to tower over the Headmistress. Wearing a dressing gown and bonnet of dark-green tartan, she gave the appearance of having shrunk over the course of the last few days. The hands which rested on Hermione's shoulders were dreadfully thin and displayed a network of pronounced veins.

"Thank you, Irma," said Professor McGonagall with a brief, affectionate smile to her colleague.

She settled herself into a chair as Madam Pince nodded and stalked from the library. As she rearranged her gown around her in the chill of the early morning air she noted that Hermione was once again rubbing the stump of her left arm. Her lips compressed into a thin, straight line: history was in danger of repeating itself and that simply would not do.

"I was engaged to be married," she blurted out.

Hermione sat up straighter, shocked by the last statement and aware of what it must have cost this intensely private woman.

"I wasn't very much older than you are now and I was very much in love. You must bear in mind that in those days society was nowhere near as permissive as it is today. The consequences of misbehaviour back then were a great deal harsher than they are now and quite rightly too! Expulsion from an educational establishment or dismissal from a professional post and the subsequent loss of livelihood were ever-present penalties which everybody feared! I can assure you that there was precious little in the way of canoodling and that hanky-panky was unheard of – a fact which Miss Brown might do well to remember!" she added forcefully.

Hermione's gaze had so far remained fixed on her knees and she was glad of it. For at this last emphatic exclamation she had actually smiled. Minerva McGonagall may have been a product of a bygone age of genteel behaviour, but she was a delight nonetheless. The ridiculous image of a prim and proper Lavender Brown came unbidden to mind, but the subsequent smile disappeared as yet another sharp stab of pain in the stump of her left arm caused a wince to replace it.

"Such circumstances forced my contemporaries and me to concentrate on other aspects of our relationships and it is my opinion that we were better off for having done so," she asserted as her hands clasped each other with such force that the knuckles showed white. "Patrick was a handsome boy, Hermione!" continued Professor McGonagall with a sniff. "He was a thoroughly decent person who was liked and respected by nearly everybody he came into contact with. He was a prefect but almost never had to deduct house points as a quiet word from him was enough to resolve most situations. He was a Ravenclaw and was therefore even able to maintain cordial enough relations with Slytherins, if you can imagine that!" She plucked a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at her red-rimmed eyes before continuing.

"He died at the end of August 1945 in the last spasm of violence of the followers of Grindelwald; just days after Albus had defeated him. These lackeys, _Die Übermenschen_, were much like the Death Eaters of today; unreconstructed racial and pureblood elitists. Patrick was working in the Department of Magical Defence at the time and we had just celebrated our engagement with a formal dinner in London to introduce our respective parents to one another. It was such a pleasant summer evening and our parents had been getting along so famously that we chose to walk back to the hotel at which we were all staying. It was an enchanting evening which I shall never forget as we were on the threshold of adult life and all that it promised. We held hands as we walked back, Hermione; we held hands in front our parents and it felt the most natural thing in the world to do!

"Just as we were about to cross the street to our hotel, disaster struck. What with the end of the Muggle war security had been growing lax and the Übermenschen were fleeing from a failed attack on the Ministry of Magic. The Aurors pursuing them had successfully cut off their escape route, forcing them down our street and those Muggles who witnessed the episode quite sensibly ran for cover. This was over fifty years ago, Hermione, and you must remember that men and women acted differently. It wasn't the 'sexist' action which it might be branded today when the men of our party stepped in front of the women. We had all drawn our wands as a sensible precaution and were prepared to defend ourselves as well as we were able, but men were wont to act in such a gallant manner in those times!

"The sight of six wand-bearing figures in a street of Muggles who were throwing themselves on the floor caught the attention of the Übermenschen, of course. They thought we were another party of Aurors and attacked us with the ferocity of a trapped Manticore! We were overwhelmed by the power of the Dark curses they flung around with such disregard for life and limb. My poor father lost a leg and Patrick's mother was left blind for the rest of her life. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing at that given the state of…of her beloved son!"

At this the elderly witch finally broke down and sobbed bitterly into her handkerchief. Hermione gently placed her hand on the Headmistress's knee, letting her know that she wasn't alone. After a few moments in which the muffled sobs echoed around the great chamber of the library, Professor McGonagall looked up again.

"Hermione, I wasted a great deal of my youth on feelings of guilt and anger. When I saw young Ronald suffering it cut me so and I tried to do what I could to alleviate his plight. Just as Hieronymus Massingbird had helped me over my own grief in the past, he likewise helped Ronald. Bless that dear man for being present in my life!"

"I know I oughtn't to ask this question, Professor, but after Patrick's death did you ever…?"

"No!" stated the old witch with a shocked tone of voice. "Oh, I didn't mean to snap at you, Hermione. In fact, it's exactly for that reason that I've come to speak to you, my dear," she said as she patted the hand on her knee. "I don't regret the path which my life took after Patrick died. I have helped to educate so many of the young people who have passed through the halls of this ancient school that I have no cause for complaint. Believe me when I say it has been both a privilege and an honour to do so. However, I have to admit that by the time I had fully recovered from the blow which Patrick's death had dealt me, it was too late for me to think about a family of my own. I was too set in my ways to consider…_romance_…so late in life!" she admitted with embarrassment.

"Hermione, there will always be a place for you here at Hogwarts. Whatever your needs, money, accommodation or company, they will be met here. However, I implore you not to do as I have done. Learn from my mistakes and go on living as it is what he…they…would have wanted if they truly loved us, and they did both love you so, Hermione. Take life with a firm grip and go on!"

Such passion had she spoken with that she had to take a moment to recover her breath. She seemed to be on the point of speaking again before Hermione leant forward to kiss her warmly on the cheek.

…

"Well, I'll not take up any more of your time, Miss Granger. If I might make so bold as to offer a personal observation, you look terrible! I'll send Miss Weasley along to your chambers momentarily, so that she might assist you in your grooming. The ceremony is in two hours and you both ought to spruce up a bit. I've already spoken to her this morning, but see if you can't cheer her up little if you are able."

With a squeeze of Hermione's shoulder, Professor McGonagall was gone. Behind her she left a thoughtful young witch.

----------

The late morning was chill but also crisp and clean with none of the gloom that had for so long permeated the land. There was a hazy mist which stubbornly clung to the low rolling hills in between the Forbidden Forest and the lake, but it served only to diffuse the light from the sun and create an all-encompassing blanket of white. In the middle distance the stately silhouettes of those making their way to The Brae seemed to mark the solemnity of the occasion by moving in perfect step with one another.

As they looked out over this monochrome vista of the grounds and breathed deeply of the late winter air, Ginny and Hermione stood motionless on the veranda at the south of the castle. They were clad in their dark school robes with the only splash of colour coming from the house scarves which they had wrapped around their necks. Against the muted colour of Hogwarts' ancient stonework and the stark beauty of the surrounding grounds, the red and gold of the House of Gryffindor for once looked garish and out of place. Hermione pulled hers off and was quickly followed in doing so by her friend, yet despite the cold air they remained stood stock still in their silent contemplation of the grounds.

A small group of Aurors dressed in their uniform grey robes paused as they walked down the steps to their left and a short witch raised her eyebrows in an invitation for the two girls to accompany them. Without a word having been exchanged, they all set off to walk the mile down to The Brae. Hermione was surprised when a tall wizard to her right offered her his arm for support over the uneven moor. The robes and the heavy cloak she wore did a good job of hiding the stump of her left arm, so he must have already known of her loss. It was strange that she was now not quite so anonymous as once she had been, she thought to herself as she smiled her acceptance of his offer. It was true that very few Hogwarts students had been present at the battle, but in the ensuing chaos she would have imagined that nobody would have had the time to take note of individual faces. She sighed heavily as she realised just how much the world had changed in the last few days.

The utter silence of the castle and its environs was eerie given the number of people gathering for the commemorative ceremony. It was as if the land conspired to keep both their presence and the existence of the neat rows of graves hidden from prying eyes. Such a soundless environment also served to turn people's thoughts in upon themselves which was hardly the most desirable state of affairs given recent events. It was a grim and silent group which arrived at the foot of The Brae. Nodding her thanks to the wizard, Hermione walked away from the group and surveyed the scene before her.

Gathered in a semicircle before The Brae were scattered clumps of witches and wizards. Altogether they must have numbered somewhere approaching three hundred individuals; a surprisingly small number for an official memorial service and wake held by the Ministry. Ordinarily one might expect to see several times that number, what with the families of the fallen, the press and representatives of foreign countries. The ceremony at which Albus Dumbledore had been invested with the Order of Merlin after the defeat of Grindelwald had been attended by upwards of five thousand people. That time, however, the enemy had been a foreign wizard and even the pureblood families of Great Britain had supported Dumbledore in his efforts. This war had been home-grown and as with any civil war, its scars would be generations in healing if at all.

The group of officials at the top of the hill came to some sort of order and the waiting crowd took this as its cue to draw in. As they did so Hermione was horrified to hear the unmistakable notes of the Hogwarts March played by the Ministry of Magic brass band. It was the self same tune which had been played with such gusto by Hogwarts pupils on the night of the third task of the Tri-Wizards Tournament: the night of Cedric Diggory's death. Bile rose in her throat and her heart hammered as she remembered that night. Her grasping hand found Ginny's and as she looked into her friend's eyes she saw a horrified expression she knew to be identical to the one on her own face. As the ceremony began they held on tightly to one another, apart from the main group as Scrimgeour's voice rolled out over the moor.

----------

"The men and women in those graves do not rest in peace!" he began, pointing towards the neat rows of headstones between the hill and the Forbidden Forest.

He paused to cough wetly before continuing and aides rushed to his side only to be snarled at for their troubles. Scrimgeour had been wounded whilst personally leading the 3rd Auror Phalanx at the battle and had still not received anything other than cursory medical treatment. He was much too busy trying to secure his grip on power and to round up any stray Death Eaters to attend to anything so inconsequential as his own wounds. Everything he had planned and worked so hard for in his life was now within reach and his Slytherin ambition was not to be denied.

"And why is that the case, you might very well ask yourselves. Did they not make the ultimate sacrifice to protect their love ones? Is it not true that they died to protect perfect strangers when they could have been hiding themselves in a safe place, waiting for the end of the battle and a clear victor with whom they could ally themselves? The answer is very clearly that they could have done so, yet they chose to do what was right for or world at the expense of what was good for them!"

Scrimgeour's arm rose slowly to point at the plain granite obelisk which stood at the very top of the hill whilst his narrowed eyes remained fixed on the crowd.

"It has been just fifty short years since Albus Dumbledore defeated the Dark wizard Grindelwald; just fifty years in between one slobbering maniac and the subsequent one. Well, let me make one thing clear; it will be a lot more than fifty years until the next madman intent on tearing our world apart will rise! Changes will be made which will ensure that the petty corruption, widespread cowardice and rampant greed which allowed Grindelwald and Voldemort to terrorise and threaten our world will never run unchecked again!

"I say there will be a New Order!" he barked, slamming a fist down onto the lectern.

From the crowd issued no applause or cries of approbation, but then he had expected none. Here were the hard-faced witches and wizards upon whom all of his plans depended. These were the veterans of battle who viewed the world with calm, unhurried eyes as opposed to the ignorant, ungrateful population who would have rolled over for Voldemort without hesitation if it meant they could be guaranteed to survive. Upon these few stalwarts depended everything and he needed their support above all else, he reminded himself.

"Any witch or wizard who took part in The Battle of The Brae will be invested with the Order of Wizarding Merit. Be they Auror, teacher, student or cook, it matters not! Any man or women who stood with me on this field and who put their fragile mortal forms between the Death Eaters and Harry Potter as he fought his own desperate battle with Lord Voldemort will be accorded this honour. This new Wizarding Order, a medal with three concentric blue circles representing Ronald Weasley's singular sacrifice, will change the world in which we all live!

"I see the scepticism on some of your faces and quite rightly so. Perhaps you are asking yourselves how yet another pretty ribbon and gold medal issued by a fat bureaucrat at the Ministry of Magic might change the world. Let me explain my plan briefly, after which you may decide whether or not to lend me your support in this ambitious scheme. To put it quite simply, there will be no more fat bureaucrats…ever. I am, of course, speaking of implementing a state of Martial Law."

It was the most difficult crowd he had ever had to read and he was sure that more than a few of them would have left in disgust had he not only been both the Minister of Magic, but perhaps more importantly an Auror of over thirty years experience and possessing impeccable credentials. The fact that they had yet to conduct the memorial service for the fallen probably kept a few more from leaving as well.

"Did I perhaps say something I ought not to have said? Have I given offence for proposing a period in which the spineless, power-hungry politicians will not have our leave to once again do our world down? I will not try your patience for much longer and will put my cards on the table right now. I propose that each and every recipient of the Order of Wizarding Merit be called to service. Willing or not they will each be awarded a life-long post of high office in the wizarding world. Be it in any of the various departments of the Ministry of Magic, Hogwarts or indeed in positions which are yet to be created, you will serve as a buffer between our world and the insatiable lust for power of those who are most unworthy of holding it!

"The fact that you risked your lives in defence of our world is the surest test of your intentions. Do you not see that you must give yourselves over to this plan? Just as you faced the enemy on the battle field, so must you do the same when we are ostensibly at peace! If you choose to sacrifice your wants and plans for the future one more time, we will make safe our world for the foreseeable future and guard our world against the stupidity of its own inhabitants for it was they who had allowed the rot to spread! Had they but made the correct choices down through the years then evil would not have been able to flourish. Unfortunately, the average witch or wizard was an unthinking idiot, bovine in his or her interaction with the world in that they were content just as long as they were fed regularly.

"It was they who had voted for the likes of Fudge and had then gone on to steadfastly ignore his feeble attempts to cover up the obvious though horrible explanation for what was happening under their noses! It was they who had chosen to ignore the stunningly implausible explanations of the Daily Prophet and its puppets! It was they who had not answered the call to attend The Battle of the Brae and who had instead cowered in their homes letting those who now stand before me shed their blood in the defence of wizardkind! Well, now let them reap the reward for such behaviour when we shoulder the burden and for the time which remains to us accept responsibility for this world!

"Each and every one of us will take an Unbreakable Vow in full view of the public which will guard against dictatorship. No one will be able to accuse us of having anything other than the best interests of our world at heart. We will save…"

As the seemingly endless tirade continued, Hermione found herself utterly disinterested as to the result of Scrimgeour's bid for power. She knew she should be disturbed, but found herself turning to the only person in the world who knew what she was going through before saying tearfully,

"I wish Harry and Ron were here with us now. I wish we didn't have to wait so long to see them both again."

"Maybe they are and we don't know it,"Ginny whispered fiercely into her friend's ear as she wrapped her arms tightly around the other girl.

----------

Hermione excused herself from a knot of the old D.A. crowd which had gathered together after the ceremony. It was nice to seem them all together again, but it seemed as if she were meeting them after many years apart. Neville, Dean and Seamus amongst others had managed to find their way into the 5th Auror Phalanx to face the Death Eater Legions in battle, yet in spite of this she still felt as if a great gulf had opened up between them all. They had not been through what she had experienced and she doubted they would ever be able to understand what she was feeling. It was true than almost everybody had lost friends or family members, but Hermione had lost that and more.

Harry and Ron had begun as her brothers at a time when she had still felt isolated from her own sex due to her inability to relate to girls and their seemingly inconsequential and trivial interests. Over time though, they had become much more than family; they had quite literally become part of her. Anyone looking at the three of them from outside would have thought her to be the dominant member of the trio. After all, she was more often than not to be seen berating Ron for not applying himself to his studies or trying to bolster a moody Harry through his latest crisis. However, she had received just as much from them as she had ever given.

They had been through all their respective scrapes together, even if they had not been physically present. They felt one another's pain just as much as they shared in each other's joy. Now the only two people who had experienced what she had experienced in the last year, who had been the family she had never had and who had formed the solid base from which dealt with the world were gone. Were it not for Ginny, she felt she would curl in up her chambers and never again venture forth into the world. She stood listening to her friends chatting quietly behind her and felt the coldness seep into her bones once. But then again, maybe there was someone who was able to relate to her pain. She had just spotted a figure gazing up at the Pillar of the Dead to whom she desperately wanted to speak.

As she walked the short distance up to the top of the hill, her cloak snapped and billowed as she was exposed to the full force of the fresh wind. A distracted Moody passed her on the way back from having spoken to the man she was going to meet and he seemed to have a gleam of triumph in his eye. He looked like a man with a lot on his mind.

"Granger," was all he said as he nodded at her.

No sooner had she moved to stand next to the man than he extended an arm to pull her into the side of his body. She in turn slipped her arm around his back and leant her head on his shoulder. Together they stood there in silence, transfixed by the slow spiral of the names of the fallen on their never ending journey up and down the helix. The clouds scudding overhead brought brief periods of sunshine and shade with them and it seemed that wherever she looked, Hermione saw the world teetering between light and dark. May Merlin make it that this dear man not fall into despair, she thought fervently to herself.

She turned to regard Bob Choeke who in turn steadfastly refused to meet her eye. He was working a muscle in his jaw and she suspected he was desperately trying to hold back the unshed tears in his eyes. Leaning heavily on the walking stick in his right hand, he had a second one tucked under his arm and looked as if he still belonged in the hospital wing. Like so many others, he had been brought back from the very brink of death by the horde of healers which had descended on Hogwarts the instant the Death Eaters' anti-apparation wards had fallen.

It appeared as if he had taken enough of the blood replenishing potions he habitually carried to stave off death until his battered and broken body had been found. He was still suffering from the after effects of several unknown hexes and was none too steady on his feet even with the aid of his two walking sticks. However, the Healers had long ago given up as a bad job chasing the majority of the wounded Aurors who opted to leave the hospital wing. As long as they took their potions and turned up for whatever appointments they had, they were in no immediate danger. Besides, physical activity helped to occupy their minds and until they could be relocated to other medical facilities it would be better if they managed to keep out of Healers' hair.

"I'll be going to work for Moody now that he's the new Provost Marshall," said Bob without preamble.

"But…I thought you were going to resign when this was all over. That's what you told Harry and me just before I lost my…at the volcano, I mean," she protested.

"That was then and this is now. I honestly can't think of anything better to do with myself and you can't deny that the Aurors are a bit short-handed at the moment," he said with a shrug as he nodded towards the graves in the distance.

"Just because you haven't any immediate plans doesn't mean you need continue where you are, Bob! You could do what Iain had in mind and apply for a Quidditch coaching position at some…"

"Hermione, what's good for Iain isn't necessarily my cup of tea! Just because Jerry's kicked the bucket doesn't mean I'm going to turn tail and run. Quite the contrary, in fact, as if you reckon I'm going to let the hundreds of black-robed pillocks who kakked their pants and ran get away with it then you're sadly mistaken!"

"But you hate working with Moody!" she cried. "You're always saying that, Bob!"

"And it's as honest a statement as I've ever come up with," he laughed. "However, for now it's what I want to do and it's what I have to do. Pet, I'm twice your age; credit me with having some brains, won't you? In a couple of years when this has all died down, I'll show two fingers to Moody and go and do my own thing. In fact, according to the plan Iain and I came up with, Moody should be spitting fire right about now!"

"What did you do?" asked Hermione eagerly. Bob had taken Jerry's death very hard and the fact that he was already baiting Mad-Eye was a good sign, she thought to herself.

"Never you mind," he replied cryptically. "Suffice it to say that Moody will find that Iain's already got something lined up for himself and won't be returning to the fold. We can't let Mad-Eye have it all his own way or he'll be insufferable come tea time!"

Silence fell between them as Hermione continued to regard Bob. He had dropped his arm from her back to be able to lean on the two walking sticks and seemed to be flagging. Even in the patchy light she could see just how pale he was. The good spirits of the last few moments seemed to seep away slowly and silence fell once more between them.

"Does your pocket usually flash, pet?" asked Bob quietly after what seemed like a long while.

"Oh, it's just the old D.A. Galleon we used to call meetings and pass messages. It started flashing after Ron…," she trailed off before continuing in a strangled voice. "After the battle, I mean; all the Galleons just started flashing after…

"Maybe it was Harry destroying the Horcruxes which damaged them in some way," she finished weakly.

"It's okay, pet," he said as he reached up tentatively to pat her on the back. "I think…"

"Have you seen them yet?" she asked suddenly in an artificially bright tone of voice. The last thing she needed know were more empty platitudes and she stared intently at the lazily spiralling helix of names, desperately hoping that Bob would take the hint.

"Yes, I have. They come around every ten minutes or so," he replied with a sigh. "Look, it's just starting from the top again."

Together they watched the names of the fallen as they spiralled down from the top of the granite obelisk. As each name descended it made a grating sound as it were dragging a stone over the surface as passed. Hermione found herself mesmerised as each name slowly rotated in and out of view as it traced the path of its predecessor across the four faces of the monument.

She picked out individual names and wondered what they had been like. Would she have liked them had they met? Did they leave behind them grieving friends and families or were they the archetypal Ministry workaholics who had no time or need for them? Shivering she made a mental note to check the names of the Death Eaters who had so far been identified: there were more than a few names she would like to she on that list.

_Barrow, Jonah David – Ministry of Magic, Auror_

…

_Coe, Donatello – Ministry of Magic, Auror_

…

_Dawlish, Samson – Ministry of Magic, Auror_

…

_Eggers, Miriam – Civilian_

…

_Goyal, Suniel – Civilian_

…

_Judson, Hilary May – Ministry of Magic, Auror_

…

_Killick, Bertrand George – Ministry of Magic, Provost Marshall_

…

_Potter, Harry James – Hogwarts Student, Gryffindor._

_Puddicombe, Jeremiah Thomas – Ministry of Magic, Auror_

…

_Uzzell, Jonathan Sebastian – Civilian_

…

_Weasley, Ronald Bilius – Ministry of Magic, Auror_

…

_Yearly, Ferdinand – Ministry of Magic, Auror_

…

"They're together," said Hermione quietly after the last name had completed its course. "Harry and Jerry, I mean; I didn't realise that their names would be next to each other. Ron will probably be grumbling about that wherever they all are."

Bob didn't seem inclined to offer an observation of his own so she lapsed into silence. The mist finally seemed to be dissipating under the assault of the stiff breeze which was blowing relentlessly.

"Humph! Come on, let's go and find Iain. We're freezing our arses off here and he's so fat we should be able to shelter behind him," said a hard-faced Bob after another five minutes of uncomfortable silence.

As they slowly walked off together in search of their friend, the brass band struck up the Hogwarts March once again.

In the crowd of Aurors at the foot of the hill, a solitary figure watched them depart. For once the colour of the cloak was not black, but grey to match those of the Aurors with which he was surrounded. Anonymity was more important than ever today. Barely discernable in the capacious hood, intense black eyes over a hooked nose narrowed as thin lips pursed.

"This is just the beginning," murmured Severus Snape to himself.

**The End**

**A/N: We'll leave it there, I think.**

**My sincere and everlasting thanks go out to my full-time and part-time beta readers respectively, jenonymous and steve34. Both of them are of the North American persuasion, yet despite the fact that they are thousands of miles away they ruled this Brit with a rod of iron!**

**It fell to jenonymous to wade through the murky quagmire of my turgid prose and to obliterate my multitudinous grammatical errors. If any of you have enjoyed this story it is in no small part due to her efforts and you all owe her 100 Brownie points each! Occasionally, steve34 would rear his Stetson-clad head and help me out with the big ideas. Shall we say 10 Brownie points a head for him?**

**There are loose ends aplenty at the end of this story, I admit, but real life is like that. I did actually write a form of epilogue, but for the sake of realism decided not to post it. If I ever do write the sequel they will all be dealt with. However, I would advise you all not to hold your breath as I am going to take a few months off to write a few short stories and to…read! (gasp)**

**In the meantime, if you have any questions which do not directly touch on these areas of a possible future sequel I would be more than happy to address them, offering clarification where I may. I am a million miles from being perfect and realise that I may have made a hash of things.**

**Hermione's song is from Arcade Fire's 'Neighborhood #1' and is six years ahead of its time, so don't blitz me on that as I already know – I just like the song and think that it reflected her mental state quite nicely.**

**So, a big 'thank you' for reading and do check back in the future for more stories!**

**Bye!**

**Fish and Bird**


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